H-UFE- 

1LLED 


A-CHAPIN'RAY 


EACH   LIFE   UNFULFILLED 


EACH   LIFE 
UNFULFILLED 


BY 

ANNA    CHAPIN    RAY 

AUTHOR  OF   "TEDDY,    HER   BOOK,"    ETC. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND    COMPANY 
1899 


Copyright,  1899, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  Co. 

AU  rights  reterved 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


Each  Life  Unfulfilled 


CHAPTER    ONE 

"  REALLY,  Mr.  Heaton,  I  can't  see  what  ever 
brought  you  to  this  wilderness." 

"  Really,  Miss  Tiemann,  the  same  remark 
might  apply  to  you." 

The  girl  laughed  lightly. 

"To  me?  Oh,  the  farm  is  a  regular  feature 
of  my  summer  existence.  For  the  past  seven 
years  we  have  spent  July  here,  and  I  shall  prob- 
ably go  on  spending  July  in  this  hamlet  till  the 
end  of  time.  Auntie  always  rushes  off,  directly 
after  Commencement,  to  get  rested  from  her 
mad  whirl  of  gayety." 

"  Commencement?  " 

"  Yes ;  my  uncle  is  president  of  one  of  these 
microscopic  western  colleges.  You  see,  I  know 
how  you  Harvard  men  regard  us.  But  you 
haven't  answered  my  question." 

"As  to  what?" 

"How  you  chanced  to  come  here  into  that 
camp."  There  was  a  slight,  a  very  slight  accent 
of  scorn  in  her  voice. 


2061Q7? 


EACH  LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

"  Oh,  'twas  one  of  Jack's  flights.  We  are  off 
for  the  summer,  and  somebody  in  Chicago  told 
him  of  the  place.  It  sounded  promising,  so  he 
drifted  up  here  to  see  what  it  was  like." 

"And  you  drifted  with  him.  You  must  be  an 
ideal  companion,  Mr.  Heaton,  to  follow  your 
leader  so  blindly." 

Heaton  dropped  his  oars  for  an  instant,  and 
pushed  back  his  little  gray  cap. 

"Why  not?"  he  answered.  "The  trip  was  of 
Jack's  making.  I  had  no  plans  to  speak  of,  only 
to  get  off  and  take  a  long  vacation  while  I  was 
free  to  go." 

"  I  'm  going  to  ask  another  question,"  she 
announced,  after  a  brief  interval.  "  Right  oar, 
please  !  I  hate  to  give  orders  in  this  peremptory 
fashion ;  but  you  are  running  us  straight  into 
the  other  boat.  Who  is  Jack?" 

"  Did  n't  you  see  him?  Oh,  no ;  I  remember. 
He  had  gone  before  I  met  you.  He  is  a  young 
cousin  of  mine,  a  fine  fellow,  too ;  going  to  be  a 
doctor  as  soon  as  he  has  cut  a  few  more  wisdom 
teeth  and  attended  a  few  more  clinics.  He 
went  up,  Tuesday  morning,  to  spend  a  week 
with  some  friends  in  Waukesha;  but  I  didn't 
care  anything  about  the  people,  so  I  preferred 
to  stay  here  and  wait  for  him.  It 's  so  like  Jack 
to  go  rushing  off  at  a  moment's  notice." 

He  had  taken  up  his  oars  again,  and  his 
companion  was  silent  for  a  time,  as  she  sat 

2 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

watching  the  steady,  strong  sweep  of  the  blades 
through  the  water,  and  the  slender,  sinewy  hands 
of  the  man  before  her.  She  liked  his  hands,  for 
they  were  slim,  but  firm.  All  in  all,  she  liked 
his  whole  appearance,  and  she  looked  at  him 
more  closely  than  she  had  done  at  all  since  she 
had  met  him,  two  days  before.  He  was  tall 
and  slight  and  alert,  yet  with  a  little  air  of 
hesitancy  at  times,  which  she  was  at  a  loss  to 
explain.  His  voice  was  distinct,  but  low  and 
quiet,  and  his  manner  impressed  her  as  being 
an  odd  blending  of  strength  and  gentleness. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  camp  ?  "  she  resumed, 
after  a  prolonged  pause. 

Heaton  looked  up  at  her,  with  a  sudden  flash 
of  fun  in  his  brown  eyes. 

"  Immensely,  in  my  own  way.  It 's  a  little 
different  from  anything  I  have  seen,  and  I've 
enjoyed  sitting  back  and  watching  the  others. 
Jack  is  in  the  middle  of  it  all ;  but  I  could  n't 
quite  stand  that,  and  it  was  growing  rather  mo- 
notonous, so  I  was  glad  enough  when  old  Na- 
poleon, as  the  boys  call  him,  took  it  upon 
himself  to  introduce  me  to  your  aunt,  the  other 
day." 

"  Auntie  hailed  you  at  once  as  a  congenial 
spirit,"  Miss  Tiemann  answered,  as  she  trailed 
her  little  brown  hand  through  the  baby  waves 
that  were  following  their  boat.  "She  came 
back  to  the  house,  rapturous  because  you  had 
3 


EACH   LIFE   UNFULFILLED 

agreed  to  carry  her  letters  to  the  post  office. 
If  you  ever  want  to  win  Auntie's  heart,  just  help 
her  to  get,  or  to  send  off  her  mail,  and  in  return 
she  will  grant  you  the  half  of  her  kingdom." 

"Then  row  over  to  the  village  with  me,  Mon- 
day afternoon,  and  bring  back  the  mail,"  he 
returned  quickly.  "I  often  go  up,  and  her 
letters  will  give  me  an  additional  excuse,  you 
know." 

"  Left  oar,  quick !  "  was  the  sudden  response. 
"  You  are  running  right  into  those  lily  pads. 
I  can't  talk  and  steer  this  rudderless  boat  at  the 
same  time,  without  wrecking  both  ourselves  and 
the  conversation.  It  is  too  quiet  and  pretty  to 
talk,  anyway." 

"  But  will  you  go?  "  he  urged. 

"  Yes,  anywhere,  so  long  as  I  can  be  on  this 
charming  little  lake.  Auntie  won't  let  me  go 
out  alone,  and  there  isn't  anybody  here  — " 
She  paused  abruptly,  fearful  of  having  given  too 
broad  a  hint. 

"You  are  forgetting  Father  Napoleon,"  he 
said  gravely.  "  Still,  I  shall  be  very  grateful  if 
you  will  let  me  take  you  out  often,  as  long  as 
we  stay.  It's  a  bit  lonely  for  me  here,  since 
Jack  went." 

"  I  shall  probably  be  the  one  to  go  first,"  she 
replied ;  "  for  we  leave  here,  next  Thursday." 

"  So  soon  as  that?     I  'm  sorry." 

"  So  am  I,  for  I  love  the  place,  in  spite  of  the 
4 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

six  o'clock  breakfasts  at  the  farm ;  but  Auntie 
has  other  engagements  for  August,  and  I  usually 
follow  her  as  dutifully  as  you  do  your  cousin." 

She  was  silent  again,  and  sat  leaning  back  in 
her  place  at  the  stern,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
distant  outline  of  the  hotel  on  the  hillside  above 
the  lake.  Heaton  looked  at  her  stealthily, 
from  moment  to  moment,  and  he  was  conscious 
of  a  greater  sense  of  enjoyment  than  he  had  ex- 
perienced before  since  Jack  had  left  him.  In  fact, 
he  had  missed  his  cousin  sorely,  though  he  had 
urged  his  going  away  for  a  week's  break  in 
their  continual  intercourse.  Jack's  bright, 
happy-go-lucky  fashion  of  floundering  along 
through  life  made  him  the  best  possible  com- 
panion that  Heaton  could  have  had  just  then ; 
and,  notwithstanding  his  occasional  moody  days, 
he  was  thoroughly  grateful  for  his  cousin's  jovial 
willingness  to  give  up  his  other  plans  and  spend 
the  summer  killing  time  with  him  in  out-of- 
the-way  corners  of  the  earth.  To  be  sure,  it 
was  Heaton  who  paid  all  the  bills ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  Jack  was  giving  him  more  than 
mere  money  could  ever  buy. 

The  people  at  the  camp  had  not  interested 
him  in  the  least.  Their  jokes  passed  his  com- 
prehension, and  their  free-and-easy  intercourse 
grated  on  his  sensibilities.  Neither  had  he 
cared,  till  now,  to  go  over  to  the  hotel,  two  miles 
away.  He  was  usually  to  be  seen  paddling 
5 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

about  on  the  lake,  or  lying  in  his  hammock,  or 
else  seated  cross-legged  beside  his  tent,  writing 
page  after  page  with  an  eagerness  which  had  led 
the  jocose  Napoleon  to  circulate  the  report  that 
he  was  penning  endless  love  letters. 

He  was  certainly  lonely,  and  he  had  gladly  seized 
his  opportunity,  two  days  before,  when  Napo- 
leon had  waylaid  him  with  the  information  that 
Mrs.  Mackie  was  hunting  for  some  one  to  carry 
her  letters  across  the  lake.  Heaton  knew  Mrs. 
Mackie  by  sight.  The  little  gray-haired  woman 
and  her  pretty  niece  were  familiar  figures  about 
the  camp,  and  he  had  willingly  placed  himself  and 
his  boat  at  her  service.  His  zeal  had  been 
rewarded.  He  had  brought  back  a  goodly 
handful  of  letters  which  he  had  delivered  at  the 
farm,  and  Mrs.  Mackie,  effusive  in  her  gratitude, 
had  introduced  him  to  her  niece  and  left  the 
girl  to  entertain  him  while  she  lost  herself  in  the 
mazes  of  her  correspondence. 

In  the  easy,  off-hand  life  at  Idlewilde,  ac- 
quaintances were  quickly  made,  and  it  had  seemed 
quite  natural,  when  Saturday  night  came,  that 
Heaton  should  offer  to  row  Miss  Tiemann  up  to 
the  hotel,  for  the  weekly  hop.  The  boat  from 
the  farm  was  already  full,  and  Mrs.  Mackie  had 
easily  fallen  in  with  the  young  man's  suggestion. 
She  had  implicit  belief  in  her  womanly  intuitions, 
and  from  the  moment  of  her  meeting  him,  she 
had  been  convinced  that  she  could  safely  trust 
6 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

Mr.  Heaton  in  all  things,  even  with  her  care- 
fully-guarded niece. 

Heaton  was  glad  now  that  he  had  decided  to 
risk  the  proposition,  even  though  it  had  taken 
him  out  of  his  self-sought  quiet,  and  had  cost 
him  some  grumbling  at  the  narrow  limits  of  his 
tent  mirror.  Full  dress  might  be  undesirable ; 
but  at  least  he  did  like  his  tie  to  be  smooth,  and 
even  this  was  difficult  to  attain  before  a  glass 
five  inches  long. 

The  summer  twilight  was  darkening  the  upper 
end  of  the  lake ;  but  at  the  west  there  still  lin- 
gered a  rosy  glow.  He  watched  the  girl,  as  she 
sat  outlined  against  it,  with  one  hand  holding 
the  folds  of  her  dainty  summer  gown,  the  other 
negligently  dangling  in  the  water  beside  the 
boat,  while  her  pretty,  girlish  face  was  raised  to 
look  at  the  stars  coming  out  in  the  velvety 
blue  above  her  head.  He  could  study  her  at 
his  ease,  for  she  had  given  herself  up  to  a 
rapt,  childlike  enjoyment  of  her  surroundings, 
and  was  quite  unconscious  of  his  gaze.  She 
was  so  young,  so  pretty  with  the  rosy  light  fall- 
ing across  her  face  and  deepening  the  tones  of 
her  pale  pink  gown !  In  after  years  he  never 
quite  lost  the  memory  of  the  picture  before  him 
during  their  first  hour  alone  together. 

The  other  boat  came  alongside,  as  they 
bumped  against  the  piles  at  the  landing,  and 
Miss  Tiemann  roused  herself  from  her  reverie. 
7 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

A  moment  later,  she  was  laughing  and  chatter- 
ing with  the  friends  who  had  rushed  down  from 
the  hotel  to  meet  her  at  the  landing.  It  was 
plain  that  she  was  a  general  favorite;  but 
although  she  was  the  central  figure  of  the  en- 
larged group,  she  kept  Heaton  close  at  her  side, 
as  they  scrambled  up  the  steep  hill  and  entered 
the  great  dining-room,  already  cleared  for  danc- 
ing. Here  Heaton  was  forced  to  abandon  her 
to  the  others  for  a  time;  and,  not  caring  to 
dance  with  any  one  else,  he  attached  himself  to 
Mrs.  Mackie's  side,  where  he  sat  talking  dutifully 
to  her  while  his  eyes  followed  her  niece,  as  she 
whirled  past  him.  She  danced,  as  she  did 
everything  else,  with  a  frank  enjoyment  which 
made  it  seem  impossible  that  she  would  ever 
pause  or  grow  weary.  Heaton,  though  he  had 
supposed  his  dancing  days  were  ended,  grew 
restless  and  heedless  of  Mrs.  Mackie's  friendly 
commonplaces  while  he  waited  for  his  own  turn 
to  come. 

Nevertheless,  the  pleasantest  time  of  all  was 
when  he  was  rowing  them  both,  aunt  and  niece, 
homeward  under  the  quiet  light  of  the  stars. 
They  talked  fitfully,  now  discussing  some  trivial 
event  of  the  evening,  now  lapsing  into  a  silence 
only  broken  by  the  regular  plash  of  the  oars,  as 
they  struck  the  smooth  surface  of  the  lake.  The 
other  boat  had  lagged  far  behind,  out  of  sight 
and  hearing,  and  the  world  about  them  was  very 
8 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

still.  All  at  once  Miss  Tiemann  began  to  sing 
to  herself  with  the  little,  low,  humming  sound  of 
a  contented  child. 

"  Sing  something,  Elinor,"  her  aunt  urged. 

"  Please  do,"  added  Heaton,  turning  to  look 
around  at  her,  as  she  sat  behind  him  in  the  bow 
of  the  boat. 

"Too  bad  of  you,  Auntie,  to  disturb  my 
dreaming!  Truly,  Mr.  Heaton,  I  don't  sing 
very  much;  it's  only  a  fond  aunt's  partiality 
that  makes  her  ask  me." 

"  Let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,"  he  insisted. 

Without  more  ado,  she  began  to  sing  a  little 
Slumber  Song  of  Kiicken,  simple  and  quaint, 
but  well  suited  to  her  clear,  light  soprano  voice. 
She  showed  training  and  accuracy,  yet  her  voice 
lacked  something  which  perhaps  time  alone 
could  give.  Nevertheless  Heaton,  as  he  listened 
to  her  and  unconsciously  adapted  his  stroke  to 
the  rhythm  of  her  song,  was  supremely  content. 
He  wished  that  Jack  were  there  to  accompany 
her  with  his  rich  tenor.  Then,  upon  reflec- 
tion, he  was  devoutly  thankful  that  Jack  was 
several  miles  away,  doubtless  paying  court  to 
some  other  fair  maiden.  Jack  usually  had  all 
the  women  at  his  feet ;  for  once  it  was  better  to 
have  him  at  a  safe  distance. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

"  PROMPT  to  the  minute  !  "  Elinor  exclaimed 
gayly,  as  she  came  running  down  to  the  landing, 
two  days  later. 

Heaton  held  up  his  watch. 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing; "  but  you  boasted  too  much,  and  your  pride 
must  be  humbled.  You  are  exactly  five  minutes 
behind  time." 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,"  she  returned  impeni- 
tently,  as  she  took  his  outstretched  hand  to 
steady  herself  on  the  way  to  her  seat.  "  I  Ve 
been  in  a  state  of  persecution,  this  last  hour, 
and  I  could  n't  escape  before." 

"Who  has  been  persecuting  you?"  he  asked, 
while  he  let  his  oar-blades  drop  into  the  water. 

"  The  minister  here.  He  wanted  me  to  sing 
at  a  concert,  next  vroek.  I  believe  it  was  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Sunday-school  melodeon ;  but  I'm 
not  sure.  Anyway,  he  asked  me  if  I  could  n't 
sing  '  Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold.'  Fancy 
it !  "  And  she  laughed  gleefully  to  herself. 

"  Might  I  inquire  what  answer  you  gave?  " 

"  I  showed  unbounded  tact.  I  told  him  that 
I  'd  heard  it  and  it  was  a  sweet  thing,  a  very  sweet 
10 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

thing,  but  I  was  afraid  I  could  n't  sing  it.  Be- 
sides, I  was  going  away  too  soon.  He  offered 
to  change  the  date ;  but  of  course  I  could  n't 
allow  that." 

"  Miss  Tiemann,  how  long  since  you  finished 
your  studies  at  the  Jesuit  college,  over  here?  " 

"  I  came  from  there  yesterday,  and  left  the 
fathers  all  bemoaning  my  departure,"  she  re- 
plied demurely.  "  But  I  was  quite  sincere.  It 's 
a  song  that  I  Ve  often  heard  alluded  to  as  being 
'  real  pretty.'  To  be  sure,  one  man  I  met 
applied  the  same  words  to  the  '  Messiah '  Halle- 
lujah. He  meant  well ;  but  his  language  struck 
me  as  being  a  trifle  inadequate." 

"Are  you  working  much  at  your  music?" 
Heaton  asked,  as  he  pointed  the  boat's  bow  up 
the  lake  and  dropped  into  his  usual  slow,  steady 
stroke. 

Averse  as  she  generally  was  to  speaking  of 
her  plans,  Miss  Tiemann  felt  no  reserve,  as  she 
met  the  friendly  eyes  that  were  looking  into  her 
own.  There  was  no  tinge  of  self-assertion  in 
Heaton's  manner,  yet  she  was  conscious  of 
feeling  very  young  and  childish  beside  him, 
and  it  was  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  that  she 
answered  his  question. 

"  For  two  years  I  have  given  all  my  time  to 
it,  nearly.  I  want  so  much  to  be  able  to  sing 
well,  some  day;  but  I  am  afraid  there  isn't 
much  chance  for  it." 

ii 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

In  spite  of  himself,  Heaton  smiled  at  the  sud- 
den note  of  despondency  in  her  tone. 

"  One  of  my  good  friends  has  said,  '  If  you 
must,  you  must,  and  many  musts  will  make 
a  hit,' "  he  observed.  "  You  '11  probably  get 
your  success,  if  you  work  for  it.  Most  people 
do  in  this  world,  I  notice.  Where  have  you 
studied  ?  " 

"  Only  at  home  as  yet ;  at  home  with  Auntie, 
that  is.  My  home  has  been  with  her  since  my 
father  and  mother  died." 

"  So  your  parents  are  dead,  too,"  he  said 
quickly,  as  if  pleased  at  discovering  this  bond 
of  sympathy.  "  I  'm  alone,  too,  so  I  live  with 
my  married  sister  in  New  York,  when  I  'm  at 
home." 

"Where  does  your  cousin  live?"  questioned 
the  girl  idly,  more  from  a  desire  to  get  away 
from  the  subject  of  her  singing  than  because 
she  felt  any  especial  interest  in  the  reply. 

"  New  York,  too.  We  Ve  grown  up  together 
ever  since  we  were  small  boys,  and  we  are  great 
chums,  even  if  he  is  five  years  younger  than  I." 

"  By  the  way,"  remarked  Miss  Tiemann ; 
"  Auntie  was  asking  why  you  did  n't  come  over 
to  see  us,  last  night." 

"  I  was  n't  invited,"  Heaton  responded ;  "  and 
I  did  n't  know  how  strictly  you  might  be  keeping 
Sunday." 

"  We  take  a  vacation  here,"  she  answered,  as 

12 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

she  raised  her  sun  umbrella  and  held  it,  sail-wise, 
to  catch  the  fresh  breeze.  "  There,  is  n't  that  a 
help?" 

"  Yes,  only  I  'm  afraid  you  will  be  burnt  to  a 
cinder  without  it." 

She  glanced  upward  at  the  blazing  sun. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  returned.  "  I  'm  in  a  mood 
to  defy  Auntie  to-day.  She  wails  bitterly  over 
my  copper-colored  nose,  and  I  actually  think 
she  'd  insist  on  my  wearing  one  of  those  floppy 
sunbonnets,  like  the  women  in  camp,  if  I  were 
only  a  little  younger  and  more  biddable." 

"  After  all,  sunburn  is  fashionable,"  said  Hea- 
ton  consolingly,  though  the  dazzling  glare  on 
the  water  was  reddening  his  own  cheeks  and  nar- 
rowing his  eyes  to  a  pronounced  squint. 

"  That 's  what  they  all  say ;  but,  if  the  truth 
were  known,  there 's  a  great  deal  of  nonsense 
written  about  the  summer  girl  and  sunburn. 
They  say  we  sit  by  the  summer  sea,  and  read  Ar- 
nold and  Clough  and  those  men ;  but  that 's  all 
they  know  about  it.  What  we  girls  really  do,  when 
we  're  socially  off  duty,  is  to  wrestle  with  the 
sunburn  on  our  noses,  and  rue  the  day  we  were 
enticed  into  going  crabbing." 

"  I  hope  your  Sunday  was  successful." 

"  How  unkind  of  you  to  twist  my  words 
so !  Up  here,  I  don't  mind,  and  I  grow  red 
and  brown  till  Auntie  holds  up  her  decorous 
hands  in  horror." 

13 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

If  the  darkness  had  made  Miss  Tiemann 
dreamy,  the  other  night,  the  sunshine  appeared 
to  be  producing  the  reverse  effect  to-day,  and 
she  chattered  constantly  while  the  boat  danced 
along  over  the  water.  Heaton  answered  to  her 
mood  until  his  face  lost  something  of  its  quiet 
gravity  and  grew  suddenly  young  and  boyish. 
There  was  something  indescribably  attractive  to 
him  in  this  pretty  little  maiden  with  her  wavy 
brown  hair  and  her  bright  brown  eyes.  Her 
saucy  fun  and  her  evident  enjoyment  of  each 
passing  moment  reminded  him  of  Jack ;  but,  in 
spite  of  her  twenty  years  and  a  certain  womanly 
trimness  of  her  slight  figure,  she  seemed  to  him 
years  younger  than  his  tall  cousin. 

In  reality,  Heaton  was  several  years  her 
senior;  but  the  apparent  difference  between 
them  was  far  greater  than  the  actual,  for  as 
a  rule  he  talked  little,  and  his  manner  was  as 
quiet  and  settled  as  hers  was  buoyant.  More- 
over, at  times  a  close  observer  might  have 
noticed  a  little  look  of  weariness  about  his  kind 
brown  eyes,  and  the  short  brown  mustache  that 
shaded  his  upper  lip  could  not  quite  conceal  the 
lines  which  time,  or  care,  or  sorrow  had  traced 
about  his  sensitive  mouth.  He  was  in  no  sense 
a  handsome  man ;  but,  in  looking  into  his  thin, 
clear-cut  face,  one  instinctively  realized  that  he 
was  of  good  material  and  finely  wrought,  and  he 
wore  his  rough-and-ready  camping  suit  with  an 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

ease* which  showed  that  his  tailor  respected  him 
more  than  he  respected  his  tailor. 

Elinor  came  out  from  the  little  post  office 
with  her  arms  full  of  letters  and  packages. 

"No,"  she  answered  to  Heaton's  offer  to 
relieve  her  of  her  burden ;  "  I  am  going  to  carry 
them  back  to  the  boat.  It  makes  me  feel 
rich  to  be  holding  so  many  letters,  even  if  they 
are  n't  all  for  me.  We  '11  divide  when  we  get 
into  the  boat;  till  then,  you  must  possess  your 
soul  in  patience." 

"  Very  well."  And  Heaton  took  her  um- 
brella. "  If  you  wish  to  turn  postman,  you  are 
welcome ;  but  at  least  you  will  let  me  save  your 
long-suffering  cheeks  one  bit  of  friction." 

"  Oh,  no ;  let  me  have  the  sun,  please,"  she 
begged.  "  It  is  too  late  for  it  to  do  me  any 
harm  now,  and  it  is  almost  my  last  chance,  we 
are  going  away  so  soon.  I  'm  a  real  child  of  the 
country,  for  I  love  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine 
and  this  wonderful  clear  light  on  the  hills." 

Heaton's  brows  contracted. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  muttered,  half  to  himself. 

Seated  in  the  boat,  Elinor  fell  to  sorting  the 
letters  in  her  lap. 

"  Mrs.  Mackie,  Mrs.  Mackie,  Mrs.  Mackie, 
Mr.  T.  M.  Heaton,"  she  read.  "  Mrs.  Mackie, 
Mr.  Thomas  Murray  Heaton  —  "  She  raised  her 
eyes  abruptly. 

Heaton  was  watching  her,  while  an  amused 
'5 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

little  smile  played  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Well?  "he  asked. 

"  Is  that  your  name  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  It  certainly  is." 

"  Are  there  two  of  you  ?  " 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge." 

"  Are  you  the  Mr.  Heaton  who  writes  the 
stories  in  '  The  Century '  ?  Why  did  n't  you  tell 
me?" 

"Why  should  I?  It's  nothing,"  he  returned 
evasively,  though  he  was  pleased  at  the  bright- 
ening flush  on  her  face,  which  was  paying  an 
eloquent  tribute  to  his  work. 

"  It  is  ever  so  much,"  she  answered,  so  ear- 
nestly that  there  was  a  slight  quiver  in  her 
voice.  "  I  have  read  them,  and  I  know ;  and 
then  it  is  so  big  and  beautiful  to  do  such  work, 
to  write  for  the  people  you  've  never  seen,  but 
who  want  to  see  and  know  you." 

Her  whole  face  was  glowing  with  her  girlish 
enthusiasm,  and  Heaton  told  himself  that  he 
had  never  before  known  how  beautiful  she  could 
be,  when  she  was  stirred  below  her  surface  of 
gay  society  mannerism.  Nevertheless,  he  met 
her  words  with  a  little  laugh,  although  he  was 
unable  to  conceal  all  his  satisfaction  at  her 
praise,  as  he  answered,  — 

"  You  are  making  too  much  of  a  small  affair, 
Miss  Tiemann.  A  dozen  stories  of  no  particular 
16 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

merit  will  scarcely  rank  me  among  the  immor- 
tals. Moreover,  I  like  best  that  my  friends 
should  forget  I  ever  write,  so  I  shall  ask  you 
to  keep  my  secret  while  I  am  here." 

The  girl's  face  fell. 

"  And  may  n't  I  even  tell  Auntie  ?  " 

"I  would  rather  not,  if  you  don't  care.  A 
year  ago,  even,  I  should  n't  have  minded ;  but 
the  future  is  all  so  uncertain  that  I  like  to  say 
as  little  as  possible  about  my  work.  As  a  favor 
to  me,  please,"  he  added  gently. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  since  they  had  met 
that  he  had  referred  to  the  future  in  this  tone  of 
gravity.  Elinor  was  unable  to  read  his  mean- 
ing, and  something  in  his  face  made  her  feel 
that  it  was  better  not  to  ask. 

"  Well,  if  you  won't  let  me  tell,  I  suppose  I 
must  n't,"  she  said  resignedly ;  "  only  it 's  not 
quite  fair  not  to  let  us  burn  just  a  little  bit  of 
incense  before  you.  'T  is  n't  every  day  that  we 
get  a  real,  live  lion  at  Idlewilde,  and  we  'd  like 
to  hear  him  roar  a  little.  Is  this  what  you  are 
writing,  all  the  time  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

Heaton  nodded. 

"  Yes.     But  how  did  you  know?  " 

"Oh,  gossip  flies,  and  Napoleon's  voice  is 
louder  than  he  thinks,"  she  replied  lightly, 
although  she  blushed  as  she  realized  the  true 
cause  of  her  interest  in  his  answer.  Notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  the  present  week  would 
2  17 


EACH  LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

put  an  end  to  their  acquaintance,  she  was  secretly 
glad  to  discover  that  her  companion  was  not 
engaged  to  some  other  woman.  At  least  it  gave 
more  freedom  to  their  temporary  intercourse. 

Heaton,  unconscious  of  the  interpretation 
which  Napoleon  had  put  upon  his  devotion  to 
his  pen,  was  unable  to  read  the  cause  of  her 
blush.  In  spite  of  his  pleasure  at  her  praise,  he 
was  sorry  that  she  had  found  him  out,  and  he 
determined  to  throw  himself  upon  her  mercy. 

"  You  know  how  these  people  talk,"  he  said ; 
"  and  you  have  found  out,  to-day,  how  they 
martyrize  the  stranger  within  their  gates.  They 
have  no  perspective  in  such  matters.  If  they 
were  to  hear  that  I  'd  ever  written  a  word  that 
was  salable,  they  would  demand  an  auction  of 
stories  for  the  benefit  of  the  melodeon,  to  supple- 
ment your  singing." 

"  But  Auntie  is  n't  like  that,"  she  urged. 

"  I  know,"  he  said;  "  only — " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  rowing  steadily. 
Then  he  dropped  his  oars,  as  he  said,  with  an 
evident  effort,  — 

"  The  fact  is,  Miss  Tiemann,  I  have  n't  written 
much  lately.  Till  I  came  here,  I  had  n't  touched 
a  pen  for  weeks,  and  I  may  give  it  up  entirely." 

"  Oh,  why?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Stern  necessity.  It 's  too  long  and  too  dull 
a  story  to  tell,  so  I  won't  bore  you  with  it. 
Still,  I  care  enough  for  my  writing  so  that  it 
18 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

will  be  hard  for  me  to  let  it  go.  I  'm  sorry  to 
be  so  mysterious  about  it,"  he  added,  with  a 
forced  lightness  of  manner ;  "  but  now  I  have 
told  you  so  much,  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to  say 
nothing  about  my  work,  and,  so  far  as  you  can, 
to  forget  it." 

He  bit  his  lip  for  a  moment,  while  the  water 
flew  past  them,  lashed  to  foam  under  his  quick 
strokes.  Then  he  looked  up  again,  and,  though 
his  lips  were  smiling,  there  was  an  expression  in 
his  brown  eyes  which  somehow  made  her  think 
of  an  animal  in  pain. 

"  If  you  ever  do  come  across  any  of  my  work 
again,"  he  said ;  "  deal  with  it  as  gently  as  you 
can." 

Awed  by  the  intensity  of  his  manner,  Elinor 
let  fall  the  letters,  and  held  out  her  hand  in 
token  of  agreement. 

"  I  will,"  she  said  slowly. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"  I  DIMLY  suspect  that  I  made  a  fool  of  myself," 
Heaton  remarked  to  himself,  while  he  was  put- 
ting his  tent  in  order,  the  next  day.  "  I  hate 
scenes ;  but  that  girl  nearly  led  me  into  making 
one,  and  now  she  must  think  me  a  cross  between 
a  milksop  and  a  Don  Juan.  Fancying  my  talking 
melodramatically  of  the  future!  "  He  laughed, 
but  his  laugh  had  nothing  mirthful  in  it.  Then, 
when  he  had  finished  his  labors,  he  strolled 
across  to  his  hammock  and  threw  himself  down 
at  full  length,  while  he  considered  how  best  to 
remove  the  disagreeable  impression  he  might 
have  created. 

Child  as  he  thought  Miss  Tiemann,  still  he 
cared  for  her  good  opinion,  and  he  disliked  to 
have  her  carry  away  with  her  the  idea  that  he 
was  given  to  forcing  his  confidence  upon  com- 
parative strangers  in  any  such  way  as  this.  As 
a  general  thing,  Heaton  kept  his  feelings  to 
himself.  Even  Jack,  his  constant  companion, 
had  little  idea  of  the  real  inner  life  of  his  cousin, 
so  it  was  all  the  more  surprising  that  he  had 
been  betrayed  into  speaking  as  earnestly  as  he 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

had  done,  the  day  before.  At  the  time,  he  had 
been  sincere  enough ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  him 
an  unwarranted  display  of  sentiment.  His  brown 
cheeks  grew  hot  at  the  memory,  and  he  had  a 
passing  desire  to  run  down  to  Chicago,  that  day, 
and  telegraph  Jack  to  meet  him  there. 

"But  what  is  the  use?  "  was  his  philosophical 
second  thought.  "  I  sha'n't  see  the  girl  again 
after  this  week,  and  she  has  forgotten  it  all  by 
this  time,  most  likely,  so  I  may  as  well  make 
the  most  of  the  present  good  times,  and  not 
care  what  she  thinks  of  me.  Confound  those 
letters,  though !  " 

For  a  moment  he  lay  still  and  looked  about 
him.  Camp  Idlewilde  was  at  its  best,  that 
breezy  July  noon,  for  a  heavy  rain,  the  night 
before,  had  washed  all  heat  and  dust  away,  and 
every  tent  and  every  green  tree  and  tuft  of 
grass  was  fresh  and  smiling  in  the  sunshine. 
Up  in  the  cabin  on  the  hill,  a  boy  choir  from 
the  city  were  giving  their  daily  hour  of  practice 
to  a  chorus  from  one  of  the  greater  oratorios. 
Though  too  far  away  to  distinguish  the  words, 
Heaton  enjoyed  the  rhythmic  beat  of  their  fresh 
young  voices,  and  he  marvelled  that  those  clear, 
sweet  tones  could  come  from  the  restless  little 
imps  who  pervaded  the  camp  at  other  hours, 
shrieking  in  shrill,  discordant  glee.  Outside  the 
cabin,  a  dozen  rabbits  were  stupidly  hopping 
about,  or  stopping  short  to  sit  up  and  listen  to 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  voices  of  their  quondam  enemies.  On  both 
sides  of  him  lay  the  tents,  scattered  about 
among  the  trees,  and  beyond  it  all  stretched 
the  lake,  shining  like  a  broad,  silvery  mirror 
between  its  sloping  banks.  Napoleon  and  his 
kindred  were  away,  and  the  camp  was  very 
quiet. 

Five  minutes  later,  Heaton  rolled  out  of  his 
hammock,  gave  himself  the  shake  which,  in 
camp,  answered  for  his  mid-day  toilet,  and 
strode  away  to  the  farm.  He  found  Elinor 
swinging  in  her  hammock  under  the  oak-trees 
on  the  lawn.  Throwing  aside  her  book,  she 
welcomed  him  cordially. 

"  Auntie  is  lying  down,"  she  said,  as,  without 
rising,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"  Everybody  here  but  myself  takes  an  after- 
dinner  nap,  and  I  get  desperately  lonely,  while 
I  wait  for  them  to  wake  up.  Bring  out  that 
chair  on  the  piazza  and  entertain  me." 

He  obeyed  her,  and  settled  himself  at  her 
side. 

"  How  shall  I  proceed?  "  he  asked. 

"Talk  to  me  about  —  about  yourself,"  she 
said  audaciously. 

"  But  why?  There  are  so  many  more  inter- 
esting subjects,"  he  said  languidly. 

"What  are  they?" 

"  Thank  you  for  the  implied  compliment,"  he 
returned. 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Tell  me  about  your  sister,  then,  if  you 
won't  talk  about  yourself,"  she  responded, 
laughing. 

"  Bertha?  There  's  not  much  to  tell.  She 
lives  in  New  York,  and  she  has  two  children, 
and  I  live  with  her." 

"And  her  husband,  I  suppose.  Is  she  as 
Eastern  as  you  are  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean?     Am  I  Eastern?  " 

"  In  every  way.  The  first  moment  I  heard 
you  speak,  I  knew  you  came  from  the  effete 
civilization  of  the  East.  All  your  words,  your 
vowels,  that  is,  sound  so  unlike  ours.  You 
must  notice  the  difference.  And  then  you  don't 
look  like  the  men  here." 

"Not  even  Napoleon?"  he  asked,  as  he 
shifted  his  position  and  sat  with  his  elbow  on 
the  back  of  his  chair,  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand.  He  had  a  habit  of  staring  intently  at 
the  ground  while  he  was  talking,  and  only  glanc- 
ing up  now  and  then,  as  some  especial  point 
in  the  conversation  awakened  his  interest.  In 
some  men  it  would  have  been  awkward;  but 
it  seemed  too  characteristic  of  him  to  admit  of 
any  criticism. 

"  Napoleon  is  n't  a  fair  type,"  she  answered. 
"  He  is  unique ;  but  that  German  friend  of 
yours  is  more  like  our  Western  men.  I  had  a 
cousin  at  Harvard,  a  few  years  ago." 

"Who  was  he,  and  what  was  his  year?  It's 
23 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

absurd  to  ask,  of  course ;  but  one  always  tries  to 
pick  up  common  acquaintances." 

"  Wilson  was  his  name.  He  was  in  Eighty- 
five,  I  think." 

"  That  was  my  year.  Was  Jim  Wilson  your 
cousin?" 

"  I  feel  better,"  Elinor  declared  gravely.  "  If 
you  once  find  a  common  acquaintance,  you  are 
old  friends  directly.  I've  never  seen  Jim,  to 
be  sure ;  but  it  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  you 
have.  It  bridges  the  chasm  of  the  unknown 
past." 

"  The  most  I  remember  about  him,"  Heaton 
confessed ;  "  is  that  he  was  called  the  laziest 
man  in  our  class.  He  was  a  bright  fellow;  but 
he  went  through  college  such  a  mass  of  con- 
ditions that  the  other  fellows  used  to  say  he 
could  n't  have  made  even  an  unconditional  sur- 
render." 

Elinor  laughed. 

"That's  Jim,"  she  said.  "I  recognize  the 
fidelity  of  your  description.  But  we  must  n't 
stay  here  and  slander  my  cousin.  If  it  isn't 
too  warm,  let 's  walk  to  the  spring.  I  '11  be  ready 
in  a  moment." 

In  an  incredibly  short  time,  she  joined  him, 
dressed  for  walking.  Heaton  cast  an  approving 
glance  at  her  cheviot  gown  and  little  brown 
shoes. 

"  I  hope  you  are  dressed  for  a  rough  tramp," 
24 


EACH   LIFE   UNFULFILLED 

he  said.  "  I  want  to  show  you  one  of  my  favorite 
brooks,  and  it  looks  a  little  as  if  we  might  get  a 
shower." 

To  her  surprise  she  had  never  seen  him  in 
a  brighter,  more  careless  mood.  His  manner, 
the  day  before,  had  made  a  profound  impression 
on  her,  an  impression  which  it  had  been  im- 
possible for  her  to  shake  off.  After  dwelling 
upon  the  matter  throughout  the  morning,  after 
magnifying  it,  according  to  the  fashion  of  girl- 
hood, it  was  rather  a  disappointment  to  her  to  find 
her  moody,  mysterious  knight  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  the  genial  man  of  the  world.  Still, 
she  felt  more  at  home  with  him  in  his  present 
mood,  and  her  own  gayety  came  back  to  her  in  full 
measure,  as  they  tramped  away  up  the  road  at 
a  round  pace,  talking  blithely  as  they  went. 
It  was  a  new  experience  for  her  to  find  some  one 
who  loved  the  country  as  she  did  ;  and  Heaton's 
pleasure  in  every  woodland  thing  was  a  constant 
source  of  delight  Challenge  him  as  she  would, 
she  could  find  no  bird-note  of  which  he  was 
ignorant,  no  flower  with  which  he  was  un- 
familiar. 

An  hour  later,  they  were  sitting  on  a  rugged 
hillside.  To  the  right  hand  and  the  left,  the 
branches  of  the  trees  hung  low  about  them, 
caressing  the  tops  of  the  green  ferns  that,  thick 
and  soft,  waved  lazily  in  the  summer  breeze. 
Close  at  their  feet,  a  little  brook  went  splashing 
25 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

over  tiny  waterfalls  and  chattering  along  the 
pebbles,  on  its  way  to  a  ruined  waterwheel,  six 
hundred  feet  below. 

All  at  once  and  without  preface,  Elinor  broke 
the  silence  which  had  fallen  between  them. 

"  Have  you  ever  written  anything  but  short 
stories,  Mr.  Heaton?" 

His  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  laughing, 
dancing  water,  though  he  roused  himself  at  her 
question. 

"  No,  that  is  all." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  a  novel  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  smiled  thoughtfully. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  would  be  beyond  me,"  he  said 
half  mischievously.  "  I  don't  believe  I  have 
had  the  necessary  experiences." 

For  a  minute  she  watched  him  closely.  His 
tone  was  quiet  and  dreamy,  and  his  face  ex- 
pressed full  content.  It  was  new  to  her  that  he 
should  speak  like  this  in  regard  to  his  writing, 
and  she  liked  the  mood.  It  was  as  if,  soothed 
by  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  hour,  he  had  for- 
gotten himself  and  her,  in  his  vague  plans  for 
future  work. 

"  You  must  get  the  experience,"  she  returned. 
"  I  think  you  could  write  a  successful  novel,  if 
you  were  to  try." 

"  It 's  not  to  be  had  for  the  mere  asking,"  he 
answered,  still  in  the  dreamy  undertone  he  had 
used  before.  "  I  have  a  notion  that  a  book 
26 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

can't  be  made  to  order,  but  that  it  must  grow 
up  with  us,  if  it  is  to  amount  to  anything." 

Elinor  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand." 

This  time  he  turned  to  look  directly  at  her, 
while  his  face  lighted  with  his  thought. 

"  I  don't  wonder,  for  I  did  n't  make  it  very 
clear.  What  I  'm  trying  to  get  at  is  this :  that 
our  work  is  n't  anything  outside  of  ourselves. 
It's  a  part  of  us,  and  grows  with  our  growth. 
That  is  one  reason  that  failure  tears  us  to  pieces 
so.  We  feel  that  the  fault  is  n't  in  our  work ; 
it's  in  ourselves." 

"But  you  will  write  a  novel  in  time?  "she 
urged. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps.  I  have  often  thought 
of  it,  and  wished  I  could  do  it ;  but  it  is  beyond 
me  now.  If  the  time  ever  comes  that  I  dare 
attempt  it,  I  shall  try." 

"  I  hope  it  will  come  soon,"  she  said,  while 
she  stroked  the  long  feathery  ferns  at  her 
side.  "  It  would  be  so  interesting  to  feel  that 
perhaps  this  very  summer  had  played  some  part 
in  it." 

She  spoke  with  the  simple  egotism  of  a  child 
who  tries  to  share  the  mood  of  an  older  com- 
panion. Suddenly,  to  her  surprise,  she  sa\v 
Heaton's  lips  twitch  nervously,  while  the  color 
faded  from  his  face. 

"  What  rubbish  we  're  talking !  "  he  said 
27 


EACH  LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

sharply,  as  he  hurled  a  stone  into  the  pool 
below  him  and  sat  frowning  to  see  the  clear 
water  grow  dark  with  the  up-turned  sand. 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Only  that  my  writing  days  are  over,  and  I 
shall  do  nothing  more.  Come,  Miss  Tiemann, 
I  think  the  shower  will  catch  us  soon,  and  we 
must  be  starting  for  home."  His  momentary 
passion  appeared  to  have  spent  itself,  as  he 
stooped  to  offer  her  his  hand. 

She  rose  reluctantly. 

"  Must  we  go  ?  This  has  been  so  pleasant, 
and  it  is  almost  my  last  chance  to  revel  like 
this." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  his  old,  kindly 
smile. 

"What  do  you  do  at  other  times?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  a  model  of  decorum.  When  I 'm  at 
home,  except  when  I  'm  practising,  I  sew  em- 
broidery, and  make  calls,  and  read  Walter 
Pater.  Once  in  a  while,  a  very  long  while,  I  go 
to  a  party.  Do  you  like  parties?" 

"  What  do  you  think?" 

She  eyed  him  narrowly. 

"  Ye  —  es,"  she  said ;  "  but  not  to  distraction. 
Your  sister  and  your  cousin  drag  you  into  them, 
I  think ;  but  you  like  to  run  away  and  sit  in  a 
corner  and  look  on.  And  yet  you  do  know  how 
to  waltz,"  she  added  musingly;  "and  that  is 
28 


EACH  LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

something.  Most  people  waltz  like  either 
snakes  or  frogs." 

"Thank  you  for  admitting  so  much.  But 
you  Ve  about  hit  the  truth  of  the  matter.  I 
like  society  in  moderate  doses ;  but  unfortunately 
it  does  n't  like  me." 

"Why  not?  Anybody  can  be  popular  that 
wants  to." 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  worth  the  trouble," 
he  answered,  a  little  cynically. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  flash  of 
disapproval  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  speak  like  that,  Mr. 
Heaton.  It  is  n't  honest.  If  you  did  n't  care 
about  being  popular,  you  would  n't  stop  to  think 
whether  people  like  you  or  not." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  meekly; 
"  only  one  has  to  pay  such  a  price  for  social 
success,  nowadays,  that  it  hardly  seems  worth 
while." 

"  Stop  sneering  at  society,"  she  commanded. 
"  It  is  very  good  to  me  always,  and  I  shall  fight 
for  it.  But  here  comes  the  storm.  Let's  run 
to  that  cottage,  down  the  road." 

Breathless,  they  reached  the  cottage  just  as 
the  rain  swept  down  upon  them.  On  the  steps, 
Elinor  paused  and  looked  up  at  Heaton  with 
dancing  eyes. 

"  When  you  do  write  your  great  novel,  Mr. 
Heaton,  please  put  me  into  it,  and  be  sure  to 
29 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

state  that,  even  if  I  do  love  society,  I  am 
admirably  fitted  to  bear  up  under  the  hardships 
of  country  life." 

"  I  '11  put  you  in,  just  as  you  are,"  he  re- 
torted ;  "  without  any  alterations  or  reserva- 
tions, and  it  will  be  as  good  as  making  you  a 
present  of  a  pocket  mirror." 

In  answer  to  their  knock  an  old  German 
woman,  wrinkled  like  a  withered  apple,  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  led  them  into  her  neat 
kitchen.  There  she  gave  them  chairs,  then 
seated  herself  at  her  low  spinning-wheel  and  fell 
to  work  again,  while  from  time  to  time  her  little 
dark  eyes  wandered  towards  hA  stranger  guests. 

With  a  ready  tact  and  friendliness  which 
seemed  to  Heaton  one  of  the  most  charming 
phases  of  her  character,  Elinor  had  answered 
the  old  woman's  broken  English  in  her  own 
tongue.  She  spoke  German  musically  and 
fluently  rather  than  correctly,  and  Heaton's 
more  perfect  command  of  the  language  made 
him  listen  with  amusement  to  her  odd  slips  and 
errors,  while  they  drew  near  to  watch  the  hum- 
ming wheel. 

Shyly  at  first,  the  old  woman  explained  to 
them  that  she  bought  a  little  wool,  now  and 
then,  to  spin  yarn  for  her  husband's  socks.  It 
was  pleasant  work  for  her.  She  loved  the  dear 
little  wheel  she  had  brought  from  the  Fatherland, 
twelve  years  before ;  and,  while  she  spun,  there 
30 


EACH   LIFE   UNFULFILLED 

often  came  to  her  the  thought  of  the  far-off  days 
in  the  little  house  at  home,  only  —  she  inter- 
rupted herself  complainingly,  the  wool  was  poor 
and  broke  often,  not  like  what  she  had  used  in 
the  old  country. 

"  Hier  es  ist  Alles  zu  kurz,  zu  kurz —  Here  it 
is  all  too  short,  too  short." 

Then  she  forgot  her  grumbling,  as  Elinor 
begged  her  to  tell  about  her  old  home  and 
friends.  Won  by  the  girl's  bright,  friendly  man- 
ner, she  talked  on  and  on,  until  a  sudden  burst 
of  sunshine,  slanting  across  the  floor,  announced 
that  the  shower  was  ended. 

Elinor  rose. 

"We  must  go  now;  but  we  have  had  a  charm- 
ing hour  here.  I  am  going  home  in  a  day  or 
two;  but  may  I  come  again,  next  summer?" 
she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  in  farewell. 

"  Ach,  it  is  wie  die  wool,"  answered  the 
woman  quickly;  "  Alles  zu  kurz,  zu  kurz ;  aber 
come  back,  next  summer,  and  bring  your  freund 
mit" 

"  If  he  will  be  brought,"  returned  the  girl 
gayly.  "  I  shall  come,  anyway." 

As  they  drew  near  the  farm,  a  half-hour  later, 
Mrs.  Mackie  met  them  on  the  lawn. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  carry  you  off,  Elinor,"  she 
said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Heaton ;  "  but 
I  promised  to  bring  you  over  to  the  Inn,  as  soon 
as  you  came  back.  There  is  some  kind  of  a  frolic 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

going  on  over  there,  and  they  want  you.  Mr. 
Heaton,  we  shall  count  on  your  coming  over 
here  to  supper,  to-morrow  night.  It  is  our  last 
evening  here,  you  know,  so  you  must  n't  fail  us.'' 

Elinor  stood  looking  after  him,  as  he  walked 
away  towards  the  camp. 

"  What  can  be  the  mystery  about  his  writ- 
ing?" she  said  to  herself  half  impatiently. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

WHEN  Heaton  appeared,  the  next  afternoon, 
Elinor  sat  on  the  piazza,  entertaining  a  number 
of  friends  who  had  unexpectedly  come  over 
from  the  hotel  to  bid  her  good-by.  As  she  saw 
him  walking  across  the  lawn,  she  rose  and  went 
forward  to  meet  him.  He  came  towards  her 
with  a  light,  quick  step,  looking  up  and  down 
among  the  group  before  him,  evidently  with  the 
design  of  discovering  her  and  going  directly  to 
her  side.  However,  as  she  went  towards  him, 
he  passed  her  by  without  a  sign  of  recognition, 
halted  for  a  moment  to  look  again  at  the  people 
before  him,  and  then  bent  over  her  aunt's  chair. 
A  moment  later,  Elinor  heard  him  asking  for 
herself. 

"  Behold  me  !  "  she  said  at  his  elbow.  "  But 
is  this  the  way  you  treat  your  hostess?  I  went 
to  meet  you,  and  you  passed  me  by  on  the 
other  side." 

She  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  change  in 
his   face.     For   a   moment,    the   color   left    his 
cheeks;  then   it  returned    and  swiftly  mounted 
to  his  hair.     He  laughed  a  little  nervously. 
3  33 


EACH   LIFE   UNFULFILLED 

"Forgive  an  absent-minded  man,  Miss  Tie- 
mann,  even  if  he  has  n't  any  manners.  I  was  so 
absorbed  in  seeing  you  that  I  did  n't  see  you  at 
all." 

"  You  have  made  a  most  wily  answer,  Mr. 
Heaton.  But  come,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
friends." 

In  the  gathering  dusk,  they  were  still  sitting 
on  the  piazza,  talking  with  the  friendly,  infor- 
mal courtesy  which  quickly  passes  from  more 
general  topics  to  the  personal  details  of  plans 
and  doings.  Even  more  than  her  niece,  Mrs. 
Mackie  had  enjoyed  the  young  man  whom 
chance  had  thrown  in  her  way.  Their  daily 
intercourse  during  the  past  week  had  only  in- 
creased the  liking  she  had  at  once  felt  on  meeting 
him,  and  she  sincerely  regretted  that  their  part- 
ing, the  next  day,  was  to  be  final.  It  had  been 
one  of  those  rare  cases  when  a  chance  acquain- 
tance of  a  summer  day  had  quickly  ripened  into 
a  mutual  regard  founded  upon  similar  tastes 
and  common  interests.  Moreover,  though  his 
ease  and  courtesy  showed  him  a  man  accustomed 
to  the  social  world,  there  was  an  added  charm 
in  Heaton's  manner  which  had  attracted  Mrs. 
Mackie  far  more  than  the  young  men  she  was  in 
the  habit  of  meeting.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
to  analyse  it.  In  a  weaker  man,  it  would  have 
been  gentleness ;  in  a  less  genial  man,  it  might 
have  been  called  sadness ;  but  in  his  strong  self- 
34 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

reliant  manhood,  it  only  added  a  flavor  of  mel- 
lowness, like  the  taste  which  the  sun  gives  to 
the  reddened  side  of  the  peach. 

"  I  wished  Mrs.  Rose  owned  anything  but  a 
melodeon,  so  that  Elinor  could  sing  for  us," 
Mrs.  Mackie  was  saying,  when  she  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  a  noise  of  flying  feet  and  rum- 
bling wheels. 

Elinor  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"What  is  it?" 

A  crash  answered  her  question ;  there  followed 
a  sudden  outcry,  and  then  all  was  still.  Heaton 
leaped  down  from  the  piazza  and  rushed  away 
across  the  lawn.  In  an  instant,  he  was  back 
again. 

"  Can  you  get  me  a  lantern?  There  has  been 
a  runaway,  and  one  girl  is  hurt.  Where  can  I 
find  some  water?" 

For  the  next  half-hour,  all  was  confusion.  It 
was  as  if  the  sudden  shock  had  broken  the  still- 
ness of  the  summer  night  into  countless  jarring 
discords.  Lanterns  were  moving  to  and  fro,  cast- 
ing dull,  reddish  shadows  over  the  group  clust- 
ered about  the  wreck  in  the  road  and  throwing  a 
glare  over  the  prostrate  figure  of  the  young  girl 
who  lay  unconscious  in  the  dust.  Mrs.  Mackie 
and  Elinor  were  bending  over  her,  while  Heaton 
stood  by,  lantern  in  hand,  vainly  endeavoring  to 
quiet  her  terrified  companions. 

Mrs.  Rose  had  hurried  into  the  house,  to  get 
35 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

a  bed  in  readiness,  and,  at  the  first  sign  of  re- 
turning consciousness,  the  girl  was  lifted  and 
carried  into  the  farmhouse.  The  door  closed 
behind  the  women ;  the  men  went  back  to  pick 
up  the  ruins  of  their  carriage,  and  Heaton  was 
left  alone.  He  threw  himself  down  into  a  chair 
and  gave  a  sigh  of  utter  weariness.  He  felt 
strangely  exhausted  after  the  half-hour  of  ex- 
citement and  the  strain  of  helping  to  lift  the 
plump  young  country  girl.  It  was  his  first 
emergency  case,  and  it  had  made  him  deathly 
sick  to  stand  over  her  and  watch  her  as  she  lay 
there.  Jack  would  have  been  in  his  element ;  it 
was  just  in  his  line.  Mrs.  Mackie  had  been 
cool  and  collected,  and  even  Elinor,  girl  as  she 
was,  had  surprised  him  by  her  efficiency.  She 
appeared  to  know  by  instinct  just  what  to  do 
and  how  it  ought  to  be  done;  and  although 
her  voice  had  trembled,  her  hands  were  quite 
steady.  He  had  really  been  the  one  of  them  all 
to  be  most  unnerved;  but  he  hoped  that  he 
had  not  shown  it.  Too  bad  to  have  his  last 
evening  spoiled  in  any  such  way,  when  he  had 
been  anticipating  it  so  much ! 

Just  then  the  door  of  the  inner  room  opened, 
and  Elinor  came  out. 

"  Auntie  wants  to  know,  Mr.  Heaton,  if  you 

are  too  tired  to  harness  old  Dexter  and  drive 

me  to  the  village.     The  men  are  all  away,  and 

we  must  have  a  doctor  here  as  soon  as  possible, 

36- 


EACH   LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

and  somebody  ought  to  go  for  the  girl's  sister. 
I  'm  sorry  to  trouble  you;  but — " 

Heaton  started  up  eagerly. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  do  it.  I  was  just  wishing  I 
could  be  of  some  use,  and  at  least  I  can  drive 
Dexter.  How  is  she  ?  " 

"We  can't  tell  yet  how  much  she  is  hurt;  but 
she  seems  to  be  suffering.  We  have  been  trying 
to  make  her  as  comfortable  as  we  can,  and  then 
Auntie  sent  me  to  find  you." 

"  I  '11  go  at  once,"  he  said,  as  he  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"  But  why  could  n't  you  go  alone  ?  "  she  asked 
suddenly.  "Then  I  could  stay  here  and  help 
Auntie." 

Heaton  looked  his  disapproval.  It  was  one 
thing  to  go  for  a  long  drive  with  Miss  Tiemann ; 
it  was  quite  a  different  matter  to  go  jogging  off 
by  himself  over  country  roads.  He  knew  Dex- 
ter's  customary  pace,  and  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  bear  it  alone.  He  fibbed  shamelessly. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  of  the  way ;  besides,  I  think  a 
woman  ought  to  be  the  one  to  tell  her  sister." 

In  spite  of  her  excitement,  the  dimples  came 
into  Elinor's  cheeks  at  his  reply.  Then  she 
said, — 

"  I  '11  go.     I  will  be  ready  in  a  moment." 

"  Put  on  something  warm,"  Heaton  cautioned 
her.  "  It  will  be  cool,  driving,  and  you  must  n't 
take  cold." 

37 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

It  was  a  relief  to  Heaton  to  be  driving  along 
the  quiet  road,  under  the  peaceful  light  of  the 
stars.  The  stillness  about  him,  made  the  con- 
fusion of  the  past  hour  seem  strangely  unreal, 
like  an  ugly  dream.  Although  some  explana- 
tion of  his  present  position  might  be  a  necessity, 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  realize  what  had 
just  been  passing.  At  least,  he  had  the  cer- 
tainty of  Miss  Tiemann's  society  for  the  next 
hour  or  two,  and  he  felt  his  spirits  rise  at  the 
thought. 

Elinor  shivered  slightly. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  he  asked  instantly,  while  he 
turned  to  adjust  her  little  fur  cape. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  dressed  warmly.  How  dark  it 
is !  Can  you  see  to  drive?  " 

"  Of  course.  Anybody  can  drive  this  thing ; 
it's  slower  than  death.  Did  you  see  the  girl 
again  ?  " 

"  She 's  no  better,  and  Auntie  told  me  to 
hurry.  She  may  be  hurt  internally,  and  the 
sooner  a  doctor  sees  her,  the  better." 

Heaton  gave  a  vicious  cut  of  the  whip  across 
Dexter's  chubby  flanks.  Dexter  responded  with 
an  assenting  convulsion  of  his  hind  legs,  and 
then  resumed  his  former  meditative  pace. 

"  Confound  this  beast !  "  Heaton  said  despair- 
ingly. "  I  believe  he  is  in  league  with  the 
undertaker." 

"  Let  me  take  the  whip,"  she  answered.  "  I 
33 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

can  goad  him,  while  you  drive.     He  must  hurry. 
Is  n't  it  all  strange  ?  " 

"  Very,"  Heaton  assented  with  conviction. 
"  What  do  you  mean  is  strange  ?  " 

"  This.  When  't  is  n't  a  week  since  we  met, 
that  we  should  be  rushing  —  trying  to  rush,  that 
is  —  to  get  a  doctor  for  a  strange  woman  whom 
fate  has  deposited  at  our  door.  —  Poor  Mrs. 
Rose  !  She  will  have  her  hands  full.  For  her 
sake,  I  am  glad  we  are  going  away,  to-morrow. 
There  's  no  telling  how  long  the  girl  will  have 
to  stay,  if  she  lives." 

"You  don't  think  it  is  as  bad  as  that?" 
Heaton's  sickness  of  the  past  hour  came  over 
him  again. 

"  Auntie  looked  anxious  when  we  came  away. 
It 's  a  case,  you  know,  that  may  be  anything  or 
nothing.  Poor  Auntie  will  be  worn  out  by 
it  all,  I  'm  afraid ;  and  I  had  never  seen  any- 
thing of  the  kind  before,  so  I  could  n't  be  of 
much  use." 

"  I  was  marvelling  at  your  coolness,"  Heaton 
answered.  "  I  could  only  explain  it  on  the 
ground  of  vast  experience." 

Elinor  laughed  nervously. 

"  No,  indeed ;  only  the  result  of  a  few  emer- 
gency lectures.  It  was  horrible,  horrible; 
you've  no  idea  of  it  all.  Let's  talk  about 
something  else.  I  want  to  forget,  if  I  can. 
How  long  do  you  stay  here  ?  " 
39 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Jack  comes,  to-morrow  night.  We  may  be 
here  for  a  week  longer;  then  go  to  the  Dells, 
and  on  to  the  head  of  the  lakes.  It  is  all 
uncertain." 

"  How  pleasant  to  travel  in  that  way !  It 
makes  our  settled  plans  very  tame  in  compari- 
son. And  next  winter  you  '11  spend  in  New 
York?  Sha' n't  you  write  just  a  very  little?  I 
shall  watch  for  your  work." 

"  I  can't  tell ;  but  I  scarcely  think  so.  Things 
don't  look  much  like  it  at  present." 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  give  up  writing/'  she 
urged.  Their  solitary  evening  drive,  following 
the  unusual  excitement,  had  suddenly  made 
their  acquaintance  take  on  the  aspect  of  a 
ripened  friendship,  and  she  spoke  to  him  with  a 
greater  sense  of  intimacy  than  she  had  known 
till  then.  "  Tell  me  about  it  all." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked  quickly. 
"  Really,  there 's  nothing  to  tell,  only  I  may  not 
be  able  to  write." 

"No;  I  didn't  mean  that."  From  his  abrupt 
change  of  tone,  she  saw  that  he  had  mistaken 
her  meaning  and  supposed  that  she  was  trying 
to  penetrate  his  secret.  "  I  meant  how  did  you 
ever  happen  to  write,  in  the  first  place." 

"  It  was  foreordained  from  the  beginning,  I 

suppose,"  he  replied,  as  he  leaned  over  for  the 

whip  and  struck  Dexter  a  sharp  blow.     "  I  was 

intended  for  a  lawyer ;  but  it  did  n't  suit  me  half 

40 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

so  well  as  writing ;  that 's  all.  Now  the  game  is 
played  out,  and  I  shall  stop." 

"  And  go  back  into  law  ?  "  she  asked,  thinking 
that  she  read  the  secret  of  his  aversion  to  the 
future  in  the  need  that  he  should  devote  himself 
to  an  uncongenial  profession. 

"  It  is  doubtful.  If  you  were  a  man,  Miss 
Tiemann,  you  would  know  that  there  are  times 
when  we  can  only  stand  still  and  wait  to  see 
what  will  come  next.  I  am  in  one  of  those 
times  now.  By  next  summer,  it  will  probably 
all  be  settled." 

"  And  then  you  will  come  up  here  and  tell 
us  all  about  it?  "  she  said  eagerly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  shall  have  looked  my  last  at  Camp  Idle- 
wilde,  long  before  that  time.  Next  year,  though, 
I  hope  you  will  give  a  stray  thought  to  our  week 
together,  Miss  Tiemann.  It  has  certainly  been 
varied  in  its  nature." 

"  Next  year,"  she  answered  as  frankly  as  a 
child ;  "  Auntie  and  I  both  shall  miss  you,  for  it 
has  been  very  pleasant,  this  acquaintance  of 
ours.  But  if  you  are  such  a  wanderer,  you  '11 
probably  run  across  us  again." 

"  My  wandering  days  are  over,"  he  replied 
sadly.  "  Now  I  shall  have  to  settle  down." 

It  was  easy  to  find  the  doctor  and  send  him 
galloping  out  to  the  farm ;  but  there  was  a  long 
delay  before  the  sister  could  be  roused  from  her 
41 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

heavy  sleep  and  made  to  understand  that  she 
must  dress  and  go  with  them.  The  drive  back 
to  the  farm  was  apparently  much  longer  than 
the  distance  to  the  village  had  been.  Any  per- 
sonal conversation  between  Elinor  and  Heaton 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  girl  was  trying  to 
soothe  and  comfort  her  terrified  companion,  and 
Heaton  scarcely  spoke,  while  he  allowed  Dexter 
to  shamble  on  at  his  own  pace.  He  was  listening 
to  Miss  Tiemann,  admiring  her  kindly  tact,  and 
wishing  that  her  clear,  low  voice  would  speak  to 
him  so  sympathetically  if  trouble  should  ever 
come  to  him,  as  it  must  inevitably  do. 

The  past  week  had  been  so  short,  so  happy ! 
Their  pleasant  friendship  had  been  such  a 
delight  to  him,  for,  although  he  might  easily 
have  been  a  popular  man,  in  reality  he  made 
few  friends.  This  might  have  meant  much  to 
him,  if  circumstances  had  been  different.  As 
it  was,  it  was  all  beginning  and  no  end :  a  few 
hours  on  the  water,  a  walk,  a  drive,  and  all  their 
talk  which  had  gone  to  show  that  they  might 
have  been  such  good  friends.  The  future  might 
have  been  so  bright  before  him ;  but  he  dared 
not  look  towards  it  now.  He  could  only  shut 
his  eyes  to  it  all,  and  stumble  blindly  onward. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

"  AND  how  is  the  invalid  ?  "  Heaton  asked,  the 
next  morning. 

"  Better,"  Elinor  answered,  as  she  buttoned 
her  gloves.  "  At  least,  we  infer  so,  for  her 
temper  is  asserting  itself.  We  heard  sounds  of 
strife,  this  morning,  while  we  sat  over  the  break- 
fast table,  wondering  whether  or  not  she  was 
likely  to  die.  Moreover,  she  scorned  the  hot 
milk  that  the  doctor  ordered,  and  demanded 
fried  eggs.  I  think  she  will  recover." 

"  After  all  our  lurid  experience,  last  night,  it 
sounds  rather  like  an  anticlimax,"  Mrs.  Mackie 
observed.  "  Of  course,  I  did  n't  want  her  to  be 
injured  seriously;  but  it  would  have  been  a  little 
more  artistic  if  she  had  remained  the  pensive 
invalid  until  after  our  departure." 

"  If  you  wished  something  artistic,  Mrs. 
Mackie,  you  should  have  listened  to  Miss  Tie- 
mann's  efforts  at  conversation,  last  night.  She 
entirely  dismissed  probabilities,  and  adopted 
'  art  for  art's  sake '  as  her  motto.  I  heard  her 
assuring  the  woman  that  she  knew  just  how  it 
was,  she  always  wanted  to  go  to  bed  early,  her- 
self, after  she  had  done  a  hard  day's  washing." 
43 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Please  don't,  Mr.  Heaton.  I  was  utterly 
demoralized,  and  I  had  n't  the  least  idea  what  I 
was  talking  about.  It  was  n't  fair  for  you  to  sit 
by  and  listen,  when  you  ought  to  have  helped 
me  out." 

Heaton  gave  her  a  laughing,  sidelong  glance. 

"  I  licked  Dexter,"  he  said  defensively. 
"  That  was  enough  for  one  man  to  do." 

"  We  shall  be  at  Crawford's  for  two  weeks," 
Mrs.  Mackie  said.  "  If  Miss  Winnie  should 
come  to  an  untimely  end,  do  telegraph  us.  It 's 
wicked  to  laugh,  though,  for  the  poor  creature 
was  terribly  hurt,  last  night." 

"  So  was  I  once.  I  tumbled  down  the  back 
stairs  and  broke  my  collar-bone,  when  I  was 
two  years  old,"  remarked  Elinor ;  "  but  you  Ve 
laughed  several  times  since  then." 

"  Where  do  you  go  from  Crawford's  ?  " 

Heaton's  question  broke  in  upon  one  of  those 
pauses  which  so  frequently  come  when  friends 
are  waiting  for  the  moment  to  say  good-by. 
They  were  sitting  on  the  piazza,  surrounded  by 
luggage,  while  they  waited  for  the  stage  which 
was  to  take  them  to  the  station ;  and,  according 
to  his  promise,  Heaton  had  come  over  to  see 
them  off.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  the  ap- 
proaching parting  harder  than  he  had  supposed 
it  could  be ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  light,  bantering 
conversation,  his  face  was  unusually  grave  as, 
from  time  to  time,  he  glanced  at  Elinor,  who 
44 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

sat  beside  him  on  the  uncomfortable  wooden 
"  settee." 

"  We  shall  be  in  and  out  among  the  moun- 
tains till  October.  Then  we  shall  go  home,  and 
I  shall  fall  to  work  at  my  music,"  Elinor  an- 
swered, while  she  endeavored  to  tighten  the 
roll  of  her  umbrella.  "  I  mean  to  try,  this  year, 
to  see  if  there 's  any  music  in  me.  I  have 
played  with  it  till  now;  but,  this  last  week,  I 
have  been  making  up  my  mind  to  work  in  ear- 
nest. I  think  I  owe  you  the  inspiration,  Mr. 
Heaton." 

"  Let  me."  Heaton  held  out  his  hand  for 
the  umbrella.  "  How  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked, 
as  he  slowly  rolled  it  in  his  slim,  muscular  hands. 

"'If  you  must,  you  must,'"  Elinor  quoted. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  your  own  theory?" 

He  smiled  at  the  recollection. 

"  I  wish  you  success,  the  success  which  comes 
in  the  ability  to  work  on  and  on  forever,  with 
nothing  to  come  between  you  and  your  pro- 
fession." 

"  I  'd  rather  rest  a  little,  once  in  a  while,"  she 
answered  lightly;  but  she  added  to  herself, 
"  How  he  does  hate  law !  " 

The  stage  came  lumbering  up  to  the  gate  and 
stopped.  In  the  confusion  that  followed,  there 
was  no  opportunity  for  anything  but  the  most 
hurried  of  farewells.  Then  the  stage  went  on 
again,  jolting  and  rumbling  along  in  the  midst 
45 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

of  a  cloud  of  dust.  At  the  turn  of  the  road, 
Elinor  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  looked 
back.  Heaton  was  still  standing  in  the  gateway, 
bending  slightly  forward  and  gazing  intently 
after  them.  She  waved  her  hand ;  he  answered. 
The  next  instant  the  stage  had  swung  around 
the  turn,  out  of  sight.  Heaton  stood  there  for 
a  moment  longer,  looking  at  the  empty  land- 
scape before  him.  Then  he  slowly  drew  his 
hand  across  his  forehead  while,  half  uncon- 
sciously, he  repeated  the  words  the  old  German 
woman  had  used,  the  day  before,  — 

"  Es  ist  A  lies  zu  kurz,  zu  kurz" 

Crossing  the  lawn  on  his  way  back  to  the  camp, 
he  passed  near  the  hammock.  There  on  the 
ground  lay  a  little  book  which  Elinor  had 
dropped,  the  afternoon  before,  and,  in  the  even- 
ing's excitement,  she  had  forgotten  it.  Heaton 
stooped  and  took  it  up.  It  was  only  a  sum- 
mer novel,  rather  shabby,  with  her  name  written 
across  the  cover,  and  a  leaf  turned  down  to  mark 
the  place  where  she  had  stopped  reading.  The 
young  man  held  it  irresolutely  for  a  moment; 
then,  with  a  hasty  glance  at  the  house,  he 
tucked  it  into  the  side  pocket  of  his  short  gray 
coat  and  walked  away,  whistling  softly  to  him- 
self. 

Heaton  was  unusually  late  in  going  down  to 
the  log  cabin,  at  dinner  time.  Nearly  all  the 
campers  had  left  the  tables  when  he  appeared, 
46 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

and  he  showed  little  disposition  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  those  that  were  left.  After- 
wards, without  going  for  his  customary  row,  he 
went  directly  to  his  hammock,  where  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  lying  on  his 
back  with  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head, 
and  staring  up  into  the  green  trees  above  him. 
Hour  by  hour,  the  last  week  passed  in  review 
before  his  eyes ;  but  he  dwelt  longest  on  three 
pictures  which  stood  out  clearly  from  the  rest : 
Elinor  in  a  pink  gown  against  a  pinker  sunset 
sky ;  Elinor  staring  at  him  with  an  eager,  flushed 
face,  and  dropping  the  letters  into  her  lap  while 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  bind  herself  to 
her  agreement ;  and  Elinor,  her  hair  all  ruffled  by 
the  storm  and  her  face  full  of  merriment,  bend- 
ing down  beside  the  old  German  woman  to 
watch  the  busy  wheel. 

Without  stirring  otherwise,  he  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  pulled  out  the  little  book,  and 
began  scribbling  on  the  flyleaf. 

"  None  of  that,  old  man  !  You  know  that  is 
forbidden." 

He  started  up  abruptly,  cramming  the  book 
into  his  pocket. 

"  Jack?    How  did  you  get  over  so  early?  " 

"  Had  a  fit  of  remorse  for  leaving  you  so  long, 
so  I  took  an  earlier  train  than  I  said  I  should. 
It 's  as  well  I  did,  though,  for  I  found  you  in 
mischief.     Give  an  account  of  yourself." 
47 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I'm  all  right.     Had  a  good  time ?  " 

"Don't  I  look  so?  You  missed  it;  girls  and 
hops  innumerable,  and  none  too  many  men, 
men  like  you  and  me,  that  is." 

He  was  certainly  an  attractive  specimen  of 
humanity,  as  he  sat  there  on  the  ground  beside 
the  hammock,  laughing  at  the  modesty  of  his 
own  assertion.  For  the  past  twenty-three  years, 
life  had  dealt  kindly  with  Jack  Wyckoff,  and  he 
showed  his  appreciation  of  its  favors  by  growing 
into  a  handsome,  hearty  manhood.  His  blond 
face  and  strong  figure  roused  the  admiration  of 
every  woman  he  met ;  every  man  of  his  acquaint- 
ance liked  him  for  his  genial,  sunny  temper; 
but  Jack  went  on  his  own  way,  unspoiled  alike 
by  admiration  from  women  and  popularity 
among  men,  only  intent  upon  having  a  good 
time  as  he  went  along,  and  ultimately  making  a 
record  in  his  chosen  profession. 

"What's  been  going  on  here?"  he  asked. 
"  Is  Napoleon  still  on  deck  at  the  campfire,  and 
has  Kurzenbeine  gone  back  to  Chicago?  It 
looks  quiet  as  the  grave  here." 

"What  made  you  hurry  back?"  inquired 
Heaton,  as  he  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"  Devotion  to  you,  Tom,  coupled  with  the 
fact  that  the  prettiest  girl  I  met  up  there  was 
coming  down  on  this  train.  Now  I  look  at  you, 
though,  you  seem  a  little  off.  What  the  deuce 
sent  you  to  writing  again?  I  hope  you've  not 
48 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

done  much  of  it."     And  Jack 's  face  lost  some- 
thing of  its  jollity. 

"No;  only  a  little,  but  I  might  as  well." 
Heaton  dropped  down  into  the  hammock  again, 
and  sat  scowling  at  the  ground.  "  I  might  as 
well  keep  at  it  as  long  as  I  can,  Jack.  I  '11  have 
to  give  it  up  soon  enough,  anyway." 

"  I  know,  old  fellow ;  but  there 's  no  use  in 
expediting  matters.  You  can't  hinder  the 
inevitable ;  but  you  may  help  it  on  a  good 
deal.  I  'd  let  the  writing  alone,  this  summer." 

There  was  a  prolonged  silence.  Jack  was  the 
first  to  break  it. 

"I  say,  Tom,  what's  up?  You're  not  the 
same  fellow  I  left." 

"  Nothing  is  up.  I  Ve  been  playing  with  fire, 
that 's  all." 

Jack  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"That's  a  highly  original  remark,  and  it 
usually  portendeth  a  girl.  Well  ?  " 

"Well,  it  was  that  Miss  Tiemann  from  the 
farm.  You  know  we  had  asked  who  she  was 
before  you  went  away.  Napoleon  did  the  deed. 
He  introduced  me  to  the  aunt,  the  aunt  intro- 
duced me  to  the  niece,  the  niece  was  an  uncom- 
monly nice  girl,  and  I  behaved  as  you  do,  as 
I'd  have  done,  a  year  ago." 

"The  best  thing  you  could  possibly  have 
done.  Now  take  me  over  and  introduce  me." 

"  They  went,  to-day." 
4  49 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Oh,  and  you  were  pondering  upon  past  joys, 
when  I  found  you.  I  thought  you  looked  pen- 
sive. What's  the  use  of  taking  it  to  heart, 
Tom?  The  summer  girl  is  omnipresent,  and 
we  '11  move  on  in  search  of  fresh  fields.  I  've 
been  through  dozens  of  just  such  experiences ; 
but  they  don't  prey  on  me  a  little  bit.  We  '11 
start  for  the  Dells  to-morrow,  if  you  say  so." 

Heaton  made  no  answer.  His  cousin  sat 
looking  up  at  him  intently ;  and,  in  spite  of  the 
laugh  on  his  lips,  his  merry  blue  eyes  wore  an 
anxious  expression.  Neither  of  them  spoke, 
and  the  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  ecstatic 
cheering  of  the  choir  boys,  who  were  playing 
ball  in  a  neighboring  field.  Then  Heaton  asked 
abruptly,  — 

"  For  God's  sake,  Jack,  how  long  is  this  thing 
to  go  on  ?  " 

"  On  my  honor,  Tom,  I  Ve  no  idea." 

"  On  your  honor?  Tell  me,  if  you  can;  it's 
better  to  know." 

.  "  I  can't  tell  at  all.  I  would,  if  I  could,  old 
man.  He  said  it  might  be  a  month  or  two,  it 
might  be  two  or  three  years." 

Heaton's  head  dropped  on  his  hands. 

"  I  could  stand  all  the  rest  well  enough ;  it 's 
only  the  waiting  and  the  uncertainty  that  are  so 
bad.  Nothing  seems  of  any  use,  now,  for  it  may 
not  be  finished." 

Wyckoff  rose.     He  had   seen  his  cousin  in 
5° 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

this  mood  before,  and  experience  had  taught 
him  that  its  surest  cure  was  to  be  found  in 
physical  exercise. 

"  I  must  row  up  to  the  village  to  send  a 
letter,"  he  said,  as  he  rested  his  hand  on  his 
cousin's  shoulder.  "  I  wish  you  'd  come  with 
me,  Tom.  I  Ve  things  to  tell  you,  you  know. 
Everybody  made  a  grand  row  because  you 
did  n't  go  up,  too.  They  wanted  to  wire  you ; 
but  I  told  them  you  were  turning  hermit,  and  it 
would  n't  do  any  good.  Come  along.  Where 
did  you  leave  the  boat?" 

Half-way  across  the  lake,  Heaton  rested  on 
his  oars. 

"  You  're  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  Jack,"  he  said 
slowly ;  "  and  I  appreciate  it,  even  if  I  don't  say 
much  about  it.  But,  after  all,  if  I  were  a  mur- 
derer going  to  be  hanged,  though  theoretically 
I  suppose  I  should  cling  to  every  last  day  of 
my  life,  I  've  a  general  notion  that  I  should  bribe 
the  Lord  High  Executioner  to  hurry  up  and  get 
it  over  with." 


CHAPTER  SIX 

"  GIVE  me  your  blessing,  Auntie,  before  I  go." 

Mrs.  Mackle  looked  up  at  the  girlish  figure 
standing  before  her  in  the  doorway. 

"  Don't  you  really  think  I  'd  better  go  with 
you?"  she  asked. 

"  No ;  I  must  begin  to  fight  my  own  battles  at 
once.  Besides,  I  shall  do  better  if  I  am  alone. 
I  can't  say  that  I  anticipate  it,  though.  Re- 
member, you  are  to  meet  me  down  town,  at 
one,  so  we  can  have  lunch  together  before  you 
go  to  the  train." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  for  a  moment 
before  the  mirror,  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  her 
dress  was  in  perfect  order.  Then,  without 
speaking,  she  kissed  her  aunt  and  swiftly  left  the 
room. 

Once  out  in  the  street,  she  walked  rapidly  to 
the  nearest  elevated  station.  It  was  one  of  the 
clear,  bright  days  of  late  September  when  the 
up-town  streets  of  New  York,  though  empty,  yet 
begin  to  take  on  the  look  of  returning  life. 
People  were  still  lingering  at  the  mountains  or 
by  the  sea ;  but  their  houses  were  being  opened 

52 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

and  aired,  in  preparation  for  their  coming. 
Through  the  wide-open  windows,  Elinor  could 
see  the  white-capped  maids  flying  about;  but 
the  sidewalks  were  still  deserted,  save  by  the 
flock  of  sparrows  which,  without  troubling  them- 
selves to  move  out  of  her  way,  eyed  her  with  the 
calm  assurance  that  city  life  brings  to  its  every 
inhabitant,  bird  as  well  as  human. 

Half  a  dozen  times  on  her  way  down  town, 
Elinor  looked  at  her  watch  to  make  sure  that  she 
would  be  in  season  for  her  appointment ;  yet, 
when  the  hour  struck,  she  was  still  irresolutely 
pacing  one  of  the  streets  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Madison  Square. 

"  Alas,  my  time  has  come  !  "  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  All  I  can  do  now  is  to  screw  my  courage 
to  the  sticking-place.  But  I  won't  fail.  Winter- 
baum  advised  me  to  try,  and  I  'm  determined  to 
succeed.  Sooner  or  later  I  will  sing." 

There  was  a  bright  scarlet  spot  in  the  middle 
of  each  cheek,  and  she  shut  her  teeth  hard  upon 
her  lower  lip  to  steady  it.  Then  she  turned 
into  one  of  the  tall  buildings,  and,  too  nervous  to 
think  of  the  elevator,  she  hurried  up  four  or 
five  flights  of  stairs  and  paused,  breathless, 
before  a  door  which  bore  in  staring  black  letters 
the  sign : 

MANUEL  ARTURO 

ENTER   WITHOUT  KNOCKING 

53 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Fearful  lest,  if  she  delayed,  her  courage  would 
forsake  her,  Elinor  turned  the  knob  and  entered 
the  room.  It  was  an  attractive  little  place,  as 
befitted  the  outer  sanctum  of  one  of  America's 
greatest  musicians ;  but,  as  Elinor  sank  into 
the  nearest  chair,  her  fear  came  back  to  her, 
for  the  sounds  which  met  her  ears  were  not 
reassuring.  Directly  opposite  the  corner  where 
she  sat,  was  a  doorway  which  evidently  led 
into  the  inner  room  where  Signer  Arturo  was 
giving  a  lesson.  The  door  was  slightly  open, 
and  she  could  hear  two  voices,  one  a  clear  tenor 
which  sang  a  few  notes,  only  to  be  interrupted 
by  an  inarticulate  roar  from  the  other,  followed 
by  a  vigorous  pounding  upon  one  single  note  of 
the  piano. 

"Up,  I  have  told  you!  Up!  Up!  Put  out 
your  tongue !  Carry  the  tone  upward  in  the 
mouth !  " 

The  tenor  voice  came  again,  wonderfully  sweet 
and  true  it  seemed  to  Elinor,  as  she  listened. 

"  No,  that  is  not  right  at  all.  Why  you 
scream  there  ?  " 

"  But,  Signer  Arturo  —  "  interposed  the 
laughing  voice  of  the  pupil,  who  did  not  appear 
in  the  least  discomposed  by  the  obvious  bad 
temper  of  his  master. 

"  It  is  no  but;  you  must  do  it.     I  have  told 
you  forty  thousand  times,  and  I  tell  you  again, 
you  must  keep  the  tones  up.     Now  sing !  " 
54 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

The  other  voice  took  up  the  phrase  which 
she  had  caught,  as  she  entered  the  room.  There 
came  a  crash,  as  if  two  hands  had  suddenly  des- 
cended upon  all  the  keys  within  their  reach. 

"  Up  !  Up  !  Up  !  Up  !  Again  !  You  will  never 
be  right  to  sing  it  as  you  do ;  no  ?  Listen  to 
me."  And  he  sang  the  same  strain  three  or 
four  times  over,  with  a  delicacy  of  shading 
which  transformed  the  simple  phrase  into  a 
masterpiece  of  art. 

The  tenor  tried  to  imitate  him,  caught  the 
first  few  notes,  then  stumbled,  faltered,  and 
stopped  singing. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Signor  Arturo,  I  can't  do  that," 
he  said,  with  a  jovial  laugh. 

"  But  you  must.  Now  try.  I  pray  you  not 
to  dismay.  I  never  dismay." 

The  tenor  voice  came  again,  better,  this 
time ;  but,  half  through  the  phrase,  Arturo  in- 
terrupted it. 

"  That  will  not  do.  You  sing  with  an  expres- 
sion as  if  I  were  pinching  you  to  sing,  you  know, 
and  you  were  angry  about  it.  All  your  tones 
are  quite  wrong.  Next  time,  we  shall  begin 
with  that  little  study." 

"  But  how  about  the  song?  " 

"  You  shall  have  no  more  songs  until  you  have 
sung  better.  Now  you  must  go ;  your  hour  is 
five  minutes  over." 

Elinor  caught  her  breath  quickly,  as  she  heard 
55 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

steps  coming  towards  the  door.  She  looked  up 
to  see  two  merry  blue  eyes  staring  at  her,  as 
the  younger  man  passed  out  through  the  room. 
Then  she  looked  down  again,  for  Signer  Arturo 
stood  before  her. 

"  You  wish  me  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  more  genial 
tone  which  partially  reassured  her. 

"  I  am  Miss  Tiemann.  I  wrote  to  make  an 
appointment  with  you,"  she  answered,  forcing 
herself  to  meet  his  eyes. 

She  saw  nothing  more  formidable  than  a  stout, 
dark  little  man  who  stood  staring  at  her  and 
polishing  his  bald  head  with  his  handkerchief. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  momentary  wonder  how 
so  small  a  body  could  contain  so  great  a  voice ; 
then  she  listened  in  dismay  to  his  next  words. 

"  You  were  sent  by  Winterbaum,  my  old  pupil, 
I  think ;  and  you  wish  to  make  an  appointment 
for  me  to  try  your  voice." 

"  Can't  you  do  it  now?"  she  said  blankly. 

"  Certainly  not.  My  time  is  full,  each  day ; 
and  the  next  pupil  will  be  here  at  once.  Give 
me  your  address,  please."  And  he  took  a  little 
memorandum  book  from  his  pocket. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  wait,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
know,  to-day." 

His  face  grew  grim.  He  was  not  accustomed 
to  having  his  pupils  assert  themselves  in  this 
fashion. 

"  Not  if  it  is  a  question  of  studying  with  me. 
56 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Winterbaum  should  have  told  you  that.  I  can 
give  you  the  time  on  Thursday,  the  tenth." 

"Not  till  then?  That  is  two  weeks  off." 

He  shook  his  head  and  tapped  his  book 
impatiently. 

"  It  must  be  that,  or  nothing." 

"  I  '11  take  it,  then ;  but  I  hoped  —  " 

"  What  is  your  voice  ?  " 

"  Soprano." 

"  And  the  course  of  study  you  wish  to  take  ?  " 

"  Herr  Winterbaum  said  he  thought  I  was 
best  fitted  for  oratorio,"  she  faltered. 

"And  your  address?" 

She  gave  it;  then,  too  much  astonished  to 
rebel,  she  obeyed  his  gesture  of  dismissal. 

Outside  the  door,  she  stopped  short  and  stared 
at  the  panels  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  the  little  monster  !  "  she  said  slowly. 

From  the  end  of  the  hallway,  she  heard  a  low, 
irrepressible  laugh.  Turning  suddenly,  she  saw 
the  young  man  who  had  left  the  room  just  ahead 
of  her,  standing  by  the  door  of  the  elevator 
shaft. 

"  Please  excuse  me,"  he  said  quickly,  as  he 
took  off  his  hat.  "  I  ought  n't  to  have  laughed ; 
but  I  really  could  n't  help  hearing,  and  I  agreed 
with  you  perfectly.  Did  you  have  a  bad  time? " 

"  Dreadful." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  they  laughed  again. 

"I  know  all  about  it;  I've  just  been  there. 
57 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

But  you  must  have  had  the  benefit  of  part  of 
my  lesson." 

"  Is  he  often  like  this  ?  "  Elinor's  tone  betrayed 
her  indignation. 

"  No ;  not  often.  He 's  unusually  tempestuous, 
to-day.  Then  you  don't  study  with  him  ?  " 

"Not  yet;  but  I  hope  I  am  going  to.  He 
has  n't  tried  my  voice  yet." 

"  I  hope  you  will  succeed.  It  is  n't  every  one 
who  does,  I  can  tell  you.  I  had  to  wait  for  more 
than  two  years  before  he  would  even  look  at  me. 
Here  comes  the  elevator,  at  last."  And  he  stood 
aside  to  let  Elinor  pass  in  before  him.  "  I  wish 
you  all  manner  of  success,"  he  said,  as  they 
parted  at  the  street  door.  "  It  is  n't  always  an 
unmitigated  delight  to  be  a  pupil  of  Arturo ; 
but,  after  all,  you  will  never  regret  your  choice 
of  teacher."  And  bowing  again,  he  turned  away 
and  left  her. 

"  Isn't  it  discouraging?"  Elinor  said  over  her 
bouillon,  an  hour  later. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  did  n't  know  what  to  do,"  said 
Mrs.  Mackie  anxiously.  "  Your  uncle  is  to  meet 
me  in  Cleveland,  to-morrow,  or  I  should  n't 
think  of  leaving  you.  As  it  is  —  " 

"As  it  is,  you  will  go,"  interrupted  Elinor. 
"  There  is  no  use  in  your  waiting  here  with  me. 
If  I  succeed,  all  my  arrangements  are  made  for 
staying ;  if  I  fail,  I  can  pack  my  trunk  and  take 
the  first  train  that  leaves  for  the  West.  In  either 
58 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

case,  you  couldn't  help  me.  Of  course,  I'd 
rather  have  had  the  matter  settled,  to-day,  when 
I  was  nerved  up  to  the  crisis,  and  before  my  new 
gown  had  lost  its  pristine  freshness.  Still,  I  don't 
think  he 's  a  man  to  be  unduly  influenced  by  such 
little  matters  as  imported  gowns." 

"  But  what  will  you  do  in  the  mean  time  ?  "  her 
aunt  asked  doubtfully.  "  Till  your  lessons  begin, 
I  mean." 

"  Kill  time  as  fast  as  I  can,  Auntie.  It  won't 
be  pleasant ;  but  I  can  endure  it,  and  there 's  no 
sense  in  your  staying  here,  when  you  know 
you  hate  New  York.  It  seems  years  to  me, 
though,  since  that  last  recital  at  home,  when 
Winterbaum  urged  me  to  come  on  here  to  take 
lessons." 

The  waiter  drew  near,  just  then,  and  Elinor 
lost  herself  in  study  of  the  card.  When  her 
order  was  given,  she  looked  up  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"  Art  is  long ;  is  n't  it,  Auntie  ?  The  only  ques- 
tion is  whether  I  have  length  of  days  to  match 
it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  once  I  could  get 
started,  I  could  work,  work,  work  forever,  for 
the  sake  of  one  little  taste  of  success  at  the  end ; 
and  now  it  is  sc  provoking  to  be  met  at  the  start 
with  this  delay.  Do  you  think  there's  any 
chance  ? " 

Mrs.  Mackie  smiled  at  the  impetuous  question. 
She  glanced  up  at  the  eager  face  before  her  and 
59 


EACH    LIF.E    UNFULFILLED 

reflected  how  pretty  her  niece  had  grown,  during 
the  past  two  or  three  years. 

"  The  advice  of  a  teacher  like  Mr.  Winterbaum 
ought  to  count  for  something,"  she  replied.  "  I 
don't  worry  at  all  about  your  work,  Elinor ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  going  to  be  rather 
lonely,  in  this  new  venture  of  yours.  Your  uncle 
and  I  can't  very  well  come  here  to  live.  I  wish 
you  could  have  gone  on  studying  at  home  for  a 
year  longer,  at  least." 

"  If  I  am  ever  to  change,  this  is  the  time,"  she 
said  bravely.  "  You  need  n't  worry  about  me. 
As  soon  as  I  get  to  work,  I  shall  be  all  right." 

"  But  you  can't  live  without  friends,  no  matter 
how  much  you  may  bury  yourself  in  your  work. 
I  do  hope  Allie  Amidon  will  remember  to  write 
to  her  cousin  about  you.  If  she  calls  and  is  nice 
to  you,  that  may  be  better  than  nothing." 

Elinor  pushed  aside  her  plate. 

"  Poor  dear  little  Auntie !  You  are  deter- 
mined that  I  shall  have  a  very  bad  time  of  it. 
You  forget  that  I'm  willing  to  give  up  some 
other  things  for  the  sake  of  my  voice.  If  I 
can't  sing,  and  Arturo  says  so,  I  promise  to 
come  directly  home  and  spend  the  rest  of  my 
days  there." 

"  Yes ;  but,"  and  Mrs.  Mackie  gave  utterance 

to  the  thought  which  had  been  slowly  growing 

up  in  her  mind  during  the  week  that  she  had 

spent  in   settling  her  niece  in   the  New  York 

60 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

boarding-house ;  "  the  fact  is,  you  .are  entirely 
too  young  and  too  pretty  to  be  left  alone  in 
a  city  like  this." 

The  girl  laughed  outright. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  for  the  compliment,  and  I 
wish  you  did  n't  grudge  it  so.  But  I  'm  only  a 
working  girl  here,  working  on  my  voice  instead 
of  plain  sewing.  I  shall  be  quite  safe.  However, 
if  danger  threatens,  I  will  promise  to  flee  to 
Allie's  Mrs.  Emerson,  without  even  waiting  for 
an  introduction." 

She  turned  to  pick  up  her  gloves  and,  as  she 
did  so,  she  glanced  into  one  of  the  mirrors  which 
lined  the  wall.  Her  face  brightened,  as  she  bent 
forward  across  the  table. 

"  Auntie,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  is  n't  it 
odd?  Do  you  remember  that  Mr.  Heaton  we 
met  at  Idlewilde,  two  years  ago  ?  He  's  here." 

"Where?" 

"  Don't  look.  He  is  staring  straight  at  us. 
He  is  right  behind  me,  at  the  table  in  the  left- 
hand  corner,  there  with  that  yellow-headed  boy. 
I  did  n't  see  him  come  in ;  but  he  must  have 
seen  us.  I  wonder  why  he  did  n't  come  over  to 
speak  to  us." 

As  she  rose  to  leave  the  table,  Mrs.  Mackie 
turned  to  look  in  the  direction  which  Elinor 
had  pointed  out.  There  at  the  corner  table  sat 
Heaton,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  as  if  waiting 
to  be  served,  and  listening  to  the  animated  talk 
61 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

of  his  boy  companion.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
his  being  their  old  acquaintance;  yet,  even  in 
her  swift  glance,  Mrs.  Mackie  was  conscious 
that  he  was  much  altered.  He  was  older  and 
thinner  and  graver  than  he  had  been,  and  his 
brown  hair  was  slightly  streaked  with  gray. 
Still,  it  was  Heaton  who  sat  before  them,  and 
she  felt  a  keen  sense  of  pleasure  as  she  moved 
towards  him,  waiting  to  catch  some  look  of 
recognition. 

In  going  out  of  the  room,  it  was  necessary  to 
pass  close  to  the  table  where  he  was  sitting. 
Elinor,  who  led  the  way,  was  watching  him  ex- 
pectantly, ready  to  greet  her  old  friend,  if  he 
looked  towards  them.  He  did  look  up,  just  as 
they  were  beside  him ;  and  both  women  bowed 
in  the  cordial,  friendly  manner  which  was  a 
natural  result  of  their  acquaintance,  two  years 
before.  The  next  moment,  Elinor  turned  white, 
and,  raising  her  head  haughtily,  she  swept  on 
out  of  the  room.  Their  old  friend  had  looked 
her  full  in  the  face ;  then  he  had  turned  his  eyes 
away  again  indifferently,  without  giving  any  sign 
that  he  had  ever  seen  her  before. 


62 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"  Miss  TIEMANN?"  said  a  voice  at  her  door. 

"  Yes." 

"  There 's  some  one  to  see  you,  down-stairs. 
She  is  waiting  in  the  little  parlor." 

Elinor  crossed  the  room  and  took  the  card 
which  the  maid  was  holding  out  to  her  on  the 
tray. 

"  Mrs.  Edwin  Emerson,"  she  read.  "  That  is 
Allie  Amidon's  cousin.  Tell  her  I  '11  be  down 
directly,"  she  added  to  the  maid. 

She  was  undeniably  pleased  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  her  caller,  for  the  two  weeks  since  her 
aunt  had  gone  away  had  been  long  and  lonely 
ones  to  the  young  girl.  It  was  one  thing  to 
come  to  New  York  to  throw  herself  heart  and 
soul  into  her  chosen  work ;  it  was  quite  another 
matter  to  spend  long,  idle  hours  alone  in  her 
room,  impatiently  waiting  for  her  work  to  begin, 
uncertain  even  whether  it  could  begin  at  all.  She 
could  not  read  all  the  time,  and  she  had  never 
been  an  enthusiastic  needlewoman ;  neither  did 
she  care  to  spend  all  of  her  hours  out  of  doors. 
Exploring  a  city  in  which  she  saw  no  familiar 
face  had  palled  upon  her  by  this  time,  and  she 
63 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

had  begun  to  long  for  congenial  companionship. 
She  went  through  it  bravely ;  but  this  first 
experience  of  homesickness  had  cost  her  many 
bitter  tears.  However,  they  were  shed  in  the 
privacy  of  her  room  and  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night.  By  day,  as  she  went  about  among  the 
people  in  the  boarding-house,  she  still  main- 
tained the  gay,  resolute  manner  she  had  always 
worn. 

Since  the  day  that  her  aunt  had  left  her,  she 
had  never  seen  Heaton.  In  fact,  she  had  little 
desire  to  meet  him  again.  He  had  refused  in 
the  most  direct  and  unequivocal  manner  to 
recognize  the  fact  of  their  former  acquaintance, 
although  there  could  have  been  no  doubt  what- 
ever of  his  having  known  either  herself  or  her 
aunt.  Ponder  upon  the  subject  as  she  would, 
Elinor  could  see  no  reason  for  this  unexpected 
slight.  At  Idlewilde,  he  had  not  only  shown 
himself  friendly ;  day  by  day  he  had  sought  her 
society  with  eagerness,  and  he  had  parted  from 
her  with  evident  regret.  During  the  days 
which  followed  their  unexpected  meeting,  Eli- 
nor went  over  all  the  details  of  their  acquaint- 
ance ;  but  she  could  find  no  clue  to  the  mystery. 
For  one  moment,  she  had  wondered  whether 
Heaton  were  the  gentleman  he  had  seemed. 
Then  she  scornfully  dismissed  the  suspicion. 
It  was  impossible  to  doubt  his  honor,  however 
much  one  might  doubt  his  manners. 
64 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  It 's  simply  because  he  thinks  I  am  a  raw 
Westerner,  and  he  doesn't  care  to  know  me, 
here  in  New  York,"  she  said  to  herself,  one  day, 
while  she  stood  before  her  mirror.  Then  she 
made  a  scornful  grimace  at  the  face  looking 
back  at  her,  and  resolved  to  content  herself 
with  that  explanation  and  dismiss  the  matter 
from  her  mind. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  was  the  only  person  in  the 
city  whom  she  had  ever  seen  before,  it  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  forget  his  existence,  and  she 
found  herself  giving  much  more  thought  to  her 
former  acquaintance  than  she  cared  to  do.  She 
wondered  whether  he  were  finding  the  law  as 
uncongenial  a  profession  as  he  had  seemed  to 
expect.  She  wondered  whether  he  had  entirely 
foresworn  his  writing.  She  even  wondered  if 
he  were  still  as  intimate  with  Jack,  that  much- 
talked-of  cousin  whom  she  had  never  seen,  of 
whose  other  name,  even,  she  was  ignorant. 
She  half  wished  that  she  might  meet  him,  some 
day.  Perhaps  he  might  explain  to  her  his 
cousin's  unwillingness  to  acknowledge  her  as  an 
acquaintance. 

She  made  a  hasty  toilet  and  went  running 
down-stairs  to  meet  her  guest.  In  this  city  of 
strangers,  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Emerson  was  a 
cousin  of  her  own  cousin,  Allie  Amidon,  made 
her  seem  like  a  close  relative ;  and  Elinor  felt 
that  her  anticipations  were  realized  when  she  saw 
5  65 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  attractive  little  woman  who  rose  to  meet  her. 
In  the  stir  of  greeting,  of  rapid  interchange  of 
question  and  answer  which  followed  their  com- 
ing together,  there  was  no  opportunity  for 
Elinor  to  analyze  her  impressions.  Afterwards, 
when  she  was  alone  in  her  room  once  more,  she 
realized  that  she  had  been  spending  an  hour  in 
the  society  of  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world,  a 
woman  whose  position  was  so  assured  that  she 
could  dismiss  the  consideration  of  it  from  her 
thoughts  and  devote  herself  to  her  domestic 
affairs,  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  her  place  in 
society  was  awaiting  her,  whenever  she  might 
choose  to  assume  it. 

Without  being  in  the  least  degree  handsome, 
Mrs.  Emerson  seemed  to  Elinor  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  she  had  ever  met.  Moreover, 
she  was  blest  with  that  gift,  so  rare  among 
American  women,  a  low,  musical  voice,  and  her 
manners  were  indescribably  winning.  But  this 
lay  upon  the  surface  and  was  seen  at  a  glance. 
Beyond  and  beneath  it,  there  was  an  innate 
womanliness,  a  quick  sympathy  with  every  one 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  It  was  this 
which  had  won  for  Bertha  Emerson  a  popularity 
which  was  entirely  independent  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  mistress  of  a  beautiful  home,  and  one  of 
the  best  hostesses  in  all  the  society-loving  city. 

"  So  you  see  that  I  am  Allie's  own  cousin, 
and  almost  related  to  you,  even  if  we  never  have 
66 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

met,"  Mrs.  Emerson  said  at  length,  as  they  were 
sitting  together  in  the  stiff  little  parlor.  "  Now 
tell  me  all  about  yourself.  You  are  here  to 
study  music,  I  think." 

Elinor  laughed  a  little. 

"I  had  hoped  so;  but  there  appears  to  be 
some  question  about  it.  I  came  on,  intending  to 
study  with  Arturo." 

"Arturo?  My  cousin,  Mr.  Wyckoff,  has 
been  studying  with  him  for  a  year,  and  he  thinks 
he  is  wonderful.  How  do  you  like  him?  " 

"  I  fear  I  'm  not  in  a  mood  to  answer  that 
question  fairly,  Mrs.  Emerson.  I  had  a  very 
bad  time  with  him,  to-day." 

"  My  cousin  says  that  he  rages  at  times.  I 
trust  you  did  n't  find  him  in  one  of  his  savage 
moods." 

Elinor  shook  her  head. 

"If  I  didn't,  I  shudder  to  think  what  his 
savage  moods  may  be." 

Mrs.  Emerson  bent  over  and  laid  her  hand  on 
that  of  her  hostess. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  dear.  I  know  it  was 
something  uncomfortable,  for  you  look  worried, 
and  he  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  bear." 

Elinor  bit  her  lower  lip  for  a  moment.  It  was 
so  good  to  be  spoken  to  in  this  sympathetic 
tone,  after  living  alone  for  two  long  weeks. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  she  said  bravely.  "  I  Ve  no 
right  to  trouble  you  with  my  worries.  Besides, 
67 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

it  was  all  funny,  very  funny,  only  I  was  feeling 
blue,  and  I  could  n't  see  it  in  a  proper  light. 
Have  you  ever  seen  Arturo?" 

"  Never.  From  what  I  know,  I  think  I  don't 
care  to  meet  him." 

"  He  is  a  tiny  little  man,  very  bald,  and  with  a 
voice  like  Niagara.  He  talks  a  mixture  of  all 
the  languages  known  at  Babel." 

"  It 's  the  same  man,"  Mrs.  Emerson  inter- 
posed. "  I  recognize  my  cousin's  description  of 
him." 

"  I  had  an  appointment  with  him,  this  morn- 
ing, to  have  him  try  my  voice,"  Elinor  continued, 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself  at  the  recollection. 
"  My  watch  was  fast,  and,  for  five  or  ten  minutes, 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him  scold  the 
pupil  before  me.  That  did  n't  tend  to  put  me  at 
my  ease,  and  when  my  turn  did  come,  I  could  n't 
sing  at  all.  My  voice  was  perfectly  unmanage- 
able. He  kept  scowling  more  and  more  darkly, 
till  at  last  he  brought  both  fists  down  on  the 
keys  with  a  crash,  and  turned  around  to  face 
me.  'You  are  not  good,  signorina/  he  said. 
'  I  cannot  make  a  voice  out  of  nothing.  You 
would  better  buy  a  music  box  to  play  with.' " 

"  Oh,  you  poor  child  !  "  And  Mrs.  Emerson 
laughed. 

"That  was  nothing  to  what  followed.  He 
told  me  that  I  had  no  voice  and  no  ear,  that 
nothing  could  tempt  him  to  teach  me.  He 
68 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 
* 

advised  me  to  study  the  piano,  or  harmony,  or 
even  the  banjo ;  but  I  politely  assured  him  that 
I  only  cared  to  sing,  that  I  fully  intended  to 
learn,  and  that  I  preferred  to  have  him  for  my 
teacher.  Then  he  lost  his  temper,  and  I  sus- 
pect that  he  swore  at  me  a  little.  Unfortunately 
I  don't  understand  Italian,  so  it  was  quite 
thrown  away.  Then  we  began  again  at  the 
very  beginning  and  argued  it  all  out,  inch  by 
inch,  neither  of  us  yielding  in  the  least." 

Mrs.  Emerson  laughed  again  in  mingled 
horror  and  amusement. 

"  If  only  I  could  have  seen  you  !  It  must 
have  been  something  new  for  Arturo  to  have 
anybody  defy  his  will,  for  his  word  is  law  in  the 
musical  world." 

"  He  ought  to  be  grateful  to  me,  then,  for 
giving  him  the  new  experience.  But  it  was  an 
important  matter  to  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  n't 
give  up  and  go  back  home,  when  all  my 
arrangements  were  made  to  stay  here." 

"  It  would  have  been  ignominious.  But  go 
on.  I  must  hear  the  rest." 

"  The  rest  was  a  fitting  climax.  After  we  had 
talked  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  he  struck  another 
discordant  chord  and  said  sulkily,  '  I  have  told 
you  that  it  is  not  of  the  least  of  use,  for  you 
never  can  be  taught  to  sing.  However,  you 
may  try  again,  if  you  wish  to  be  quite  sure ;  but 
it  will  do  you  no  good  ! ' " 
69 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Encouraging !  " 

"  Was  n't  it?  But  my  temper  had  come,  and 
I  was  too  angry  to  be  afraid  of  him,  so  I  did  a 
little  better.  But  even  that  did  n't  suit  him. 
He  jerked  himself  around  and  said  viciously, 
"Diavolo,  signorina,  if  you  can  do  that  now, 
why  did  n't  you  say  so  in  the  first  moment  and 
not  waste  all  my  time,  which  is  very  costly  ?  You 
are  not  good  for  anything  now,  for  Winterbaum 
has  taught  you  quite  wrong ;  but  come  to  me  in 
a  week  from  to-day,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can  do. 
Now  go.'  And  I  went.  Do  you  wonder  that  I 
did  n't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry,  nor 
which  of  us  had  come  off  conqueror?  " 

"  You  have,  I  know.  But  I  wish  I  had  heard 
the  interview.  Do  you  mind  if  I  tell  my  cousin  ? 
He  will  be  so  amused." 

"  You  may  tell  any  one  you  choose,"  Elinor 
answered,  laughing.  "This  has  made  me  abso- 
lutely brazen,  and  I  glory  in  my  combativeness." 

"  I  shall  be  eager  to  know  the  result  of  your 
next  contest,"  Mrs.  Emerson  said,  as  she  rose  to 
take  leave ;  "  so  you  must  come  to  see  me  soon 
and  tell  me  about  it  Tuesday  is  my  day ;  but  I 
wish  you  would  feel  free  to  drop  in  upon  me  at 
any  time.  I  am  at  home  a  great  deal.  Both  Mr. 
Emerson  and  my  brother  are  home-abiding 
people,  and  we  have  a  cat-like  affection  for  our 
own  chimney  corner." 

"You  have  no  children?"  Elinor  asked. 
70 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Yes,  two,  Ned  and  baby  Ruth,  the  family 
tyrant.  But  come  to  see  me,  and  I  will  intro- 
duce you  to  my  great  boy  and  my  small  girl. 
You  know  we  are  cousins,  through  Allie,  and  I 
shall  expect  you  to  behave  in  true  cousinly 
fashion." 

Elinor  stood  at  the  window,  looking  after  her 
guest,  as  she  went  down  the  steps.  All  at  once, 
her  horizon  seemed  to  have  grown  brighter, 
and  New  York  appeared  to  her  a  much  more 
attractive  place  than  it  had  done,  an  hour  be- 
fore. And  yet  even  she  had  no  foreshadowing  of 
the  important  part  which  the  Emerson  house- 
hold was  destined  to  play  in  her  life. 


7r 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A  FEW  weeks  later,  as  Elinor  dressed  for  her 
first  dinner  party  of  the  season,  she  was  quite 
ready  to  deny  that  she  had  ever  been  homesick. 
Her  work  had  at  last  begun  in  earnest,  and  each 
day  was  busier  and  happier  than  the  one  before 
it  had  been.  The  second  test  of  her  voice  had 
proved  more  satisfactory,  and  Arturo,  as  if 
moved  to  admiration  of  this  tempestuous  young 
woman,  the  first  of  all  his  pupils  who  had  dared 
to  assert  herself  in  opposition  to  his  opinions, 
had  not  only  consented  to  give  her  two  lessons 
a  week,  but  was  treating  her  with  a  certain 
courtesy  which  her  dauntless  courage  would 
naturally  arouse. 

She  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Emerson  since  the 
day  of  their  first  meeting.  They  had  exchanged 
two  or  three  calls  in  the  mean  time,  without  find- 
ing each  other  at  home ;  and  Elinor  had  begun 
to  fear  that  their  acquaintance  was  doomed  to 
die  a  natural  death,  when  she  received  a  cordial, 
informal  note,  asking  her  to  dinner,  "  not  a  cere- 
monious affair,  just  ourselves  and  half  a  dozen 
friends,"  ran  the  invitation;  "so  we  shall  expect 
you  to  be  quite  informal." 
72 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

However,  informality  in  New  York  and  infor- 
mality at  Idlewilde,  for  instance,  were  quite  dif- 
ferent matters,  Elinor  reflected ;  and  she  chose 
her  most  becoming  gown  for  the  occasion.  She 
was  glad  that  she  had  done  so,  for,  when  she 
entered  Mrs.  Emerson's  pleasant  drawing-room, 
the  other  guests  were  assembled  and  were 
clothed  in  the  conventional  purple  and  fine  linen 
of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Emerson  greeted  her  with  the  same  cor- 
diality she  had  shown  before,  and  introduced 
her  husband,  a  jovial,  prosperous  lawyer.  Then 
she  brought  up  a  much-bestarched  little  man 
who  had  been  assigned  to  Elinor  as  a  table  com- 
panion. As  they  stepped  slightly  to  one  side, 
and  entered  into  the  aimless  conversation  which 
precedes  dinner,  Elinor  glanced  up  and  down 
the  room  at  the  people  to  whom  she  had  just 
been  introduced.  There  was  nothing  especially 
striking  about  them,  and  her  eyes  wandered 
over  them  indifferently  enough,  till  all  at  once 
she  started  slightly  and  the  color  came  into  her 
cheeks. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  asked,  interrupting  her 
companion  in  the  midst  of  a  dissertation  upon 
the  approaching  horse  show. 

"Which?"  he  inquired,  turning  his  head  as 
far  as  the  painful  proportions  of  his  collar  would 
allow  him  to  do. 

"  That  tall,  dark  man  who  just  came  in.  He 
73 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

looks  like  somebody  I  used  to  know,"  she  said 
carelessly. 

"That?  That's  Tom  Heaton.  Don't  you 
know  him  ?  " 

"  Tom  Heaton  ?  "  she  echoed. 

"  Yes,  he  's  Mrs.  Emerson's  brother,  and  lives 
with  her.  You  Ve  probably  met  him  here  be- 
fore. He  used  to  be  something  of  a  lion,  a  year 
or  so  ago." 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  while  her 
thoughts  were  busy  with  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  so  promptly  turned  her  back.  Strange  that 
he  should  be  the  brother  of  her  hostess  !  How 
tiny  the  world  was !  The  situation  was  not 
exactly  agreeable.  Here  in  his  sister's  house, 
he  would  be  forced  to  recognize  her  existence, 
although  he  had  shown  quite  plainly,  only  a  few 
weeks  before,  that  he  had  no  wish  to  keep  up 
the  acquaintance. 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  genius,  you  know,  a  fellow 
who  wrote  things  that  people  raved  over.  I 
never  could  see  much  in  them,  myself;  but  I 
always  liked  Tom,  he  was  such  a  good  fellow, 
and  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him,  when  he  went 
blind,  last  winter." 

Elinor  caught  her  breath  sharply  and  clutched 
the  chair  before  her  for  support.  The  room 
seemed  to  be  whirling  about  her,  and  the  voice 
of  her  companion  sounded  remote  and  hollow. 
Heaton  blind !  She  could  not  believe  it.  He 
74 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

had  come  walking  into  the  room  and  paused  to 
speak  to  his  sister,  with  nothing  in  his  manner 
to  distinguish  him  from  the  other  guests.  There 
must  be  some  mistake.  It  could  not  be  the 
same  Heaton  with  whom  she  had  walked  and 
rowed  at  Idlewilde. 

Suddenly  it  came  over  her  that  this,  beyond 
a  doubt,  was  the  explanation  of  everything 
which  had  puzzled  her  before.  This  was  the 
reason  that  he  must  give  up  his  writing;  this 
was  the  secret  of  his  frequent  bitter  reference 
to  the  future.  And  finally,  this  was  the  cause 
of  his  apparent  slight  of  her,  six  weeks  before. 
He  had  not  spoken  to  her,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  had  not  been  able  to  see  her,  though 
she  had  passed  so  near  him  that  she  could  have 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  as  he  sat  there. 
This,  too,  explained  countless  peculiarities  of 
his  manner,  oddities  which  had  been  unnoticed 
at  the  time,  but  which  came  back  to  her  now, 
in  the  light  of  this  sudden  revelation.  Mr. 
Heaton,  strong,  active,  and  in  the  prime  of  his 
manhood,  delighting  in  out-of-door  life  and  all 
that  pertained  to  it,  to  be  stricken  with  blind- 
ness and  shut  out  from  all  that  he  so  enjoyed  ! 
She  rallied  with  an  effort.  The  brain  works 
swiftly  at  such  times,  and  when  she  regained 
her  self-control,  her  companion  was  still  dwell- 
ing upon  the  same  topic.  She  was  glad  of  that; 
it  saved  her  asking  any  question. 
75 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Twas  hard  luck,  you  know.  For  a  year 
or  so,  he  had  been  having  the  world  at  his  feet, 
for  he  was  always  a  great  man  in  society,  and 
then  his  writing  helped  him  on.  It  was  sudden, 
too,  and  took  us  all  by  surprise ;  but  they  say 
he  had  known  it  was  coming." 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  it?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing towards  her  old  friend  slowly,  as  if  she 
dreaded  the  moment  when  she  must  look  him 
in  the  face. 

"  Some  kind  of  a  strain,  I  don't  know  just 
what.  I  was  abroad  all  that  year,  and  he  and 
Wyckoffwent  off  together  somewhere,  just  after 
the  trouble  developed,  so  I  never  knew  exactly 
how  it  was.  Did  you  say  you  knew  him?" 

"  I  met  him  a  few  times,  two  or  three  years 
ago ;  but  I  had  heard  nothing  about  him  since, 
nor  about  —  this." 

As  she  spoke,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  him.  He  was  standing  directly  opposite  her, 
talking  with  the  same  boy  whom  she  had  seen 
lunching  with  him.  One  or  two  men  stood  hear 
him,  taking  an  occasional  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion ;  and,  as  his  face  became  animated,  some- 
thing in  his  expression  reminded  her  of  the  day 
in  the  cottage,  when  he  had  laughed  at  her 
German.  It  was  the  same  genial,  kindly  smile 
she  had  known ;  but  it  vanished  more  quickly, 
and  at  rest  his  face  was  very  sad. 

"  That 's  Ned  Emerson  with  him,"  her  com- 
76 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

panion  explained.  "They  are  great  friends, 
and  Heaton  is  as  proud  of  the  boy  as  if  he  were 
his  own  son.  If  you  like,  I  '11  bring  him  over 
to  you  —  after  dinner,  that  is,"  he  added,  as 
there  came  a  general  move  towards  the  dining- 
room. 

A  glance  over  her  shoulder  had  told  Elinor 
that  Heaton  and  the  boy  were  the  last  ones  to 
leave  the  drawing-room.  As  she  settled  herself 
in  her  place  at  the  table,  she  bent  over  to  catch 
the  remark  of  her  talkative  little  neighbor ;  and, 
in  doing  so,  she  discovered  that  Heaton  was 
seated  at  her  other  hand.  For  a  moment,  she 
was  silent,  not  knowing  how  to  address  him,  not 
daring  to  speak  to  her  other  neighbor,  for  fear 
that  Heaton  might  recognize  her  voice.  He 
must  know  she  was  there,  she  reflected,  and  she 
wished  that  he  would  take  the  initiative.  It 
was  impossible  for  her  to  talk  to  him  as  she 
would  have  done  to  the  Heaton  she  used  to 
know.  This  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
another  man.  She  felt  a  sudden  awe  creeping 
over  her,  as  she  stole  an  appealing  glance  up  at 
him,  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  would  speak.  But 
Heaton  remained  obstinately  silent,  with  an  odd 
little  smile  on  his  lips,  half  bored,  half  amused. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  in  even- 
ing dress.  She  studied  the  careless  ease  with 
which  he  wore  it,  and  she  made  a  mental  com- 
parison which  was  not  entirely  flattering  to  her 
77 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

little  companion,  who  was  chattering  volubly  in 
a  futile  attempt  to  hold  her  wandering  atten- 
tion. All  at  once,  he  wound  up  with, — 

"But  what  do  you  think  about  it,  Miss 
Tiemann  ?  " 

Elinor  started  and  blushed  guiltily. 

"  I  'm  —  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to 
think,"  she  faltered.  Then  abruptly  she  turned 
to  Heaton.  "  Mr.  Heaton,  I  wonder  if  you 
have  forgotten  Idlewilde?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice 
which  seemed  to  her  to  proceed  from  the  roof 
of  her  mouth. 

Instantly  his  face  changed. 

"  It  really  is  the  same  Miss  Tiemann?  Bertha 
spoke  of  you  often,  and  I  have  wondered  if  it 
could  be  my  old  acquaintance." 

"  The  very  one,"  she  said.  "  Fate  has  cast 
me  at  your  door,  just  as  it  cast  Miss  Winnie  at 
our  door,  two  years  ago.  Do  you  remember 
that  night?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  forget  my  strug- 
gles with  Dexter?"  he  answered,  with  a  smile. 
"No;  my  memory  is  a  good  one,  and  I  think 
I  could  give  you  a  fairly  accurate  history  of 
that  week.  How  long  have  you  been  in  New 
York?" 

He   was   obliged   to   wait   for  his   reply,  for 

Elinor's  other  neighbor  was  claiming  his  share 

of  attention,  and  she  had  turned  back  to  him. 

Now  that  the  ice  was  broken,  she  would  gladly 

78 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

have  given  her  time  entirely  to  Heaton ;  but,  as 
the  conversation  became  more  general,  it  was 
impossible  for  them  to  exchange  more  than 
an  occasional  word  or  two.  She  watched  him 
closely,  however,  and,  as  her  eyes  rested  on  his 
face,  she  was  always  conscious  of  that  same  feel- 
ing of  mingled  awe  and  pity,  the  same  desire  to 
avoid  his  sightless  stare.  He  was  glad  to  meet 
her  again,  it  was  evident;  but  she  could  read 
his  embarrassment  by  countless  signs  which 
told  her  he  was  ill  at  ease  and  trying  to  conceal 
it  all  underneath  that  brave  little  smile.  As  she 
left  the  table,  she  turned  to  him. 

"  Come  and  talk  to  me  as  soon  as  you  are  at 
liberty,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  long- 
ing to  gossip  with  you  about  Idlewilde." 

Before  the  other  men  had  left  the  table, 
Heaton  excused  himself  and  went  back  to  the 
drawing-room.  Mrs.  Emerson  was  sitting  with 
Elinor,  a  little  at  one  side  of  the  room ;  and, 
as  her  brother  came  slowly  towards  them,  she 
called  him  to  her. 

"  Miss  Tiemann  has  been  telling  me  that  you 
are  old  friends,  Tom,"  she  said,  as  she  rose ; 
"  and  you  must  have  ever  so  much  to  talk  over. 
Take  my  place,  and  excuse  me  for  a  while. 
I  must  go  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Bennett." 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  she  went  away. 
Heaton  had  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  for 
the  back  of  the  chair,  and  then,  seating  himself, 
79 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

he  had  turned  towards  Elinor.  Something  in 
the  gesture  sent  a  chill  through  her.  It  seemed 
to  intensify  the  impression  made  by  the  brown 
eyes  which  met  hers  so  squarely  and  so  uncon- 
sciously; and  yet  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
realize  that  he  could  not  see  her,  as  she  sat 
there  in  her  pretty  evening  gown,  playing  ner- 
vously with  one  long-stemmed  pink  rose.  If 
he  would  only  turn  his  eyes  away,  it  would  not 
be  so  bad.  Perhaps  then  she  could  think  of 
something  to  say.  She  looked  helplessly  up 
and  down  the  room  in  search  of  some  subject 
of  conversation.  The  pause  grew  more  and 
more  strained,  and  she  felt  that  she  must 
break  it. 

"What  an  early  winter  we  are  having,"  she 
said  at  length. 

Heaton  smiled  a  little  tired,  sad  smile.  He  had 
never  been  slow  to  read  people ;  and,  during 
the  past  year,  as  if  to  balance  his  loss  of  sight, 
his  other  senses  had  become  more  acute.  He 
could  fancy  just  how  she  was  sitting  there, 
blushing  and  frowning  a  little  in  her  effort  to 
appear  at  ease ;  but,  oddly  enough,  in  the  pic- 
ture which  came  before  him,  she  was  sitting  in 
the  stern  of  a  boat,  and  the  lap  of  her  blue 
cheviot  gown  was  strewn  with  unopened  letters. 

"  Yes,"   he   assented    quietly ;    "  and    if   you 
are  n't  used  to  them,  you  will  find  our  east  winds 
very  trying.     How  long  since  you  came?  " 
80 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Only  six  weeks,"  she  answered,  giving  an 
impatient  gesture  which  snapped  off  the  stem  of 
the  heavy  rose  in  her  hand.  "  It  seems  longer, 
for  it  was  so  long  before  I  went  to  work." 

"  You  have  been  successful  since  I  saw  you," 
he  went  on,  as  if  anxious  to  avoid  another 
pause. 

He  was  still  sitting  with  his  face  turned  to- 
wards her,  and  to  avoid  his  eyes  Elinor  kept  her 
own  eyes  obstinately  fixed  on  the  floor.  In  a  way, 
it  helped  on  the  illusion  that  she  was  talking  to 
the  man  she  had  formerly  known.  His  voice 
was  the  same ;  she  recalled  all  its  little  intona- 
tions and  turns  of  expression,  its  peculiar  low 
distinctness. 

"That  depends  on  what  you  call  success," 
she  answered,  with  an  effort  at  lightness.  "  All 
I  have  done  yet  is  to  prove  my  right  to  go  on ; 
it  remains  to  be  seen  how  far  I  go." 

"Were  you  at  Idlewilde,  last  year?" 

"  Of  course,  and  this  summer,  too.  The  old 
place  is  unchanged." 

"  Even  Napoleon  ?  "  he  asked,  while  his  face 
lighted  with  a  sudden  flash  of  fun. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  a  good  memory,"  she 
replied,  conscious  that  her  words  had  a  flat, 
conventional  sound,  yet  unable  to  speak  in  her 
usual  tone.  "Yes,  Napoleon  was  there,  in  a 
brand-new  suit,  and  your  German  friend  came 
up  for  a  week.  I  saw  him  once  or  twice,  and 
6  81 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

he  was  still  mourning  for  you.     Likewise  I  saw 
Miss  Winnie." 

"  Then  she  recovered  ?  " 

"  She  certainly  did.  But  tell  me,  how  long 
did  you  stay  after  we  left?" 

"  Only  three  days,"  he  answered.  "  Life  was 
very  uneventful  after  your  departure.  We  ex- 
perienced neither  hops  nor  runaways,  and  even 
Napoleon  palled  upon  us  in  time." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Heaton,"  remarked  Elinor's  com- 
panion at  dinner,  as  he  strolled  up  to  them ; 
"  where  's  Wyckoff,  these  days  ?  I  have  n't 
seen  him  anywhere  for  weeks,  and  I  thought 
surely  he  'd  be  here,  to-night." 

Before  Heaton  could  answer,  Mr.  Emerson 
had  swept  down  upon  Elinor  and  carried  her 
off  to  look  at  his  Japanese  bronzes.  She  did 
not  see  Heaton  again  until  just  as  she  was  taking 
leave  of  her  hostess.  He  stood  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  listless  and  alone.  Elinor 
looked  towards  him  and  hesitated.  Then  she 
crossed  the  room  to  his  side. 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Heaton.  It  has  been  good 
to  see  you  again,"  she  said,  with  something  of 
her  old  cordial  manner. 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good  night,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  just 
wondering  if  you  had  gone.  Edwin  carried 
you  off  too  soon.  May  I  call  on  you  sometime 
with  my  sister  ?  " 

82 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Do,  please.  I  Ve  dozens  of  things  to  talk 
over  with  you.  I  'm  nearly  always  in,  on  Tues- 
days and  Fridays ;  but  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  ought 
to  receive  you  out  of  doors,  for  the  sake  of 
tradition." 


CHAPTER  NINE 

IT  was  late,  that  night,  when  Elinor  fell  asleep. 
When  she  reached  her  room,  she  dropped  into 
the  nearest  chair,  and  sat  there  motionless  for 
a  long  hour.  She  felt  that  her  much-anticipated 
evening  had  been  a  dismal  failure,  and  her  short 
conversation  with  Heaton  had  been  the  worst 
part  of  it  all.  Instead  of  meeting  him  frankly 
upon  the  old  ground,  regardless  of  any  change 
in  him,  she  had  been  stiff  and  constrained  and 
awkward,  until  he,  too,  had  been  uncomfortable 
and  embarrassed. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  him  again,  for  that  far-off  week 
at  Idlewilde  had  always  remained  a  pleasant 
memory ;  but  now  she  wished  that  their  path- 
ways had  never  crossed.  After  once  seeing 
him,  that  night,  so  altered  and  so  shut  out  from 
the  pretty,  gay  world  around  him,  it  had  been 
impossible  for  her  to  forget  that  he  was  in  the 
room.  She  had  been  restless  and  absent-minded 
when  she  was  not  with  him ;  but  as  soon  as  they 
were  left  alone  together,  she  had  felt  a  childish 
desire  to  run  away  and  leave  him  to  himself 
84 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

once  more.  It  was  provoking,  she  reflected 
petulantly,  to  find  him  in  the  home  of  her  new 
friends,  where  she  could  not  fail  to  see  him 
often.  Mrs.  Emerson  had  urged  her  to  drop  in 
there  at  any  time.  It  would  have  been  a  charm- 
ing social  opportunity  for  her,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  probability  of  her  constantly  meeting 
Heaton  and  being  confronted  with  his  steady, 
unseeing  gaze. 

Then  a  gentler  mood  came  to  her,  as  she 
thought  of  him,  of  what  he  must  have  suffered. 
The  blow  was  fresh  upon  him  when  they  had 
first  met.  She  could  see  its  effect  now  in  num- 
berless little  ways,  and  she  marvelled  to  herself 
that  he  had  refrained  from  speaking  of  the 
horror  which  was  pursuing  him  and  hanging 
over  him.  She  wondered  how  it  would  feel  to 
be  blind.  Rising,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room ;  but,  shut  her  eyes  as 
closely  as  she  might,  she  could  still  feel  the 
light,  and  she  knew  that  she  could  see  it  again 
whenever  she  chose.  He  was  in  the  dark,  the 
thick,  black  dark,  and  it  would  last  forever  and 
ever  and  ever. 

Something  rose  up  in  her  throat  and  choked 
her,  as  she  sprang  forward  impatiently  and 
lighted  the  two  remaining  gas  jets.  It  was  un- 
thinkable for  her,  this  absolute  darkness,  and 
yet  the  thought  of  it  terrified  her.  And  Heaton 
was  living  like  that!  He  had  endured  it  for  a 
85 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

year,  and  he  must  endure  it  for  years  to  come. 
There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but  to  en- 
dure, and  meet  people,  and  talk,  and  smile  that 
queer  little  smile  of  his,  and  make  no  sign. 
Worst  of  all,  when  she  had  met  him,  she  had 
talked  about  the  weather,  though  she  knew  he 
was  watching  for  one  accent  of  womanly  pity. 
If  only  the  evening  could  be  lived  over  again, 
she  would  speak  such  kind,  friendly  words. 

She  went  back  to  Idlewilde  and  reviewed 
their  life  there.  If  he  remembered  it  at  all,  he 
must  have  carried  away  some  mental  picture  of 
her.  She  wondered  whether  he  still  retained  it, 
and  whether  he  would  always  think  of  her 
cheeks  as  smarting  under  their  coat  of  sunburn 
and  her  hair  roughened  with  the  lake  winds. 
As  the  thought  crossed  her  mind,  she  glanced 
into  the  mirror  before  her,  and  wished  that  she 
could  substitute  her  present  self,  in  all  the  splen- 
dor of  her  rustling  silk  gown.  She  rose  wearily 
and  began  to  take  off  her  finery.  The  party 
was  over,  and  her  lesson  came  early  in  the 
morning.  Work  was  work,  and  she  must  be 
ready  for  it.  Arturo  insisted  upon  regular  hours, 
and  it  was  Arturo  who  was  ruling  her  life  now, 
not  Tom  Heaton. 

A  week  later,  she  called  upon  Mrs.  Emerson; 

but  neither  at  that  time   nor  during  her  two 

succeeding  calls  did  she   see  Heaton,  nor  did 

his  sister  make  any  but  the  most  passing  refer- 

86 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ence  to  him.  It  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Emerson 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  young  girl,  and  their 
intimacy  grew  rapidly.  The  older  woman  had 
a  fashion  of  stopping  her  carriage  at  the  door  of 
the  boarding-house,  and  carrying  Elinor  off  for 
long  drives  or  shopping  tours ;  and  before  the 
Christmas  holidays  had  come,  she  was  "  Elinor  " 
to  both  Mrs.  Emerson  and  her  husband. 

The  friendly,  informal  intercourse  was  the  best 
thing  possible  for  Elinor.  She  was  too  busy  to  go 
much  into  society,  and  this  was  the  one  home  in 
the  city  where  she  felt  free  to  drop  in  at  any  hour 
without  ceremony.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
to  doubt  the  hospitality  of  these  new  friends, 
and  their  pleasant  rooms  soon  became  nearly  as 
familiar  to  her  as  her  own  more  modest  quarters 
at  the  boarding-house.  She  met  Heaton  there 
frequently.  As  a  rule,  at  the  advent  of  callers 
he  retreated  to  his  own  den  up-stairs ;  but  his 
sister  usually  sent  for  him  whenever  Elinor 
appeared. 

"Tom  sees  so  few  people  now,"  she  said  a 
little  apologetically,  one  day ;  "  that  I  like  to 
coax  him  down  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  us  as 
often  as  I  can." 

That  was  the  nearest  she  had  ever  come  to 
making  any  reference  to  her  brother's  infirmity ; 
and  Elinor  respected  her  silence,  the  more  so  as 
she  soon  discovered  that,  whenever  Heaton  was 
present,  his  sister  never  lost  consciousness  of 
87 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

him,  but  was  always  on  the  alert  to  keep  him 
an  interested  sharer  in  the  conversation. 

Between  Elinor  and  Heaton,  the  constraint 
had  never  entirely  worn  off.  He  was  always 
conscious  of  her  discomfort  in  his  society;  and 
Elinor,  on  the  other  hand,  carried  her  apparent 
unconsciousness  to  the  point  of  indifference. 
Once  or  twice,  even,  she  had  blundered  into 
little  cutting  remarks  which  she  had  not  realized 
at  all  until,  too  late,  she  had  seen  Heaton  wince 
under  them  as  if  they  had  caused  him  physical 
pain. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  her  room,  one  day  in 
December,  resting  after  an  unusually  exciting 
hour  with  Arturo,  when  the  maid  brought  her 
Heaton's  card. 

"  There  was  a  boy  came  with  him,"  the  girl 
explained ;  "  but  when  I  said  you  were  in,  the 
boy  just  came  into  the  house  with  him,  and 
went  right  off  again  and  left  him  sitting  there 
alone." 

Heaton  rose,  as  Elinor  entered  the  room. 

"  Don't  be  too  much  surprised  to  see  me,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  As  a  rule,  I  don't  make  calls ; 
but  I  thought  you  'd  let  me  drop  in  here,  on  the 
ground  of  old  acquaintance,  so  I  asked  Ned  to 
come  with  me." 

"  And  where  is  Ned  ?  "  Elinor  asked,  as  she 
drew  a  chair  forward  and  sat  down  near  her 
guest. 

88 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  He  wanted  to  see  a  friend  in  the  next  block. 
The  two  boys  are  going  away  to  school  together, 
after  the  holidays,  and  they  have  a  great  many 
plans  to  make.  He  will  be  back  here  in  half  an 
hour ;  in  the  mean  time,  you  will  have  to  let  me 
stay." 

"  It 's  good  to  have  you  here,"  she  said  cor- 
dially. "  I  was  just  indulging  in  a  fit  of  the 
blues.  Do  you  ever  have  them?" 

"  Frequently,  especially  of  late.  What  was 
the  matter;  Arturo?" 

"  Yes,  he  was  in  a  temper,  to-day,  and  I  had  a 
bad  time  with  him." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Heaton  said  sud- 
denly, — 

"  I  had  an  especial  reason  for  coming,  to-day. 
I  wanted  to  be  egotistic  and  claim  the  'good 
boy '  reward.  I  Ve  been  writing  again,  this  last 
week." 

"  I  'm  so  glad.  Tell  me  about  it.  I  have  won- 
dered whether  you  had  done  anything  of  the 
kind  since  you  were  at  Idlewilde." 

There  was  another  pause.  Heaton  leaned  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  face  turned  towards  the  floor. 

"  The  fact  is,  Miss  Tiemann,"  he  said  at  length ; 
"  I  wanted  to  see  you  by  yourself  for  a  while. 
What 's  the  use  of  playing  at  cross  purposes  as 
we  do,  and  talking  on  the  surface  of  things? 
When  we  are  together,  we  are  both  of  us  think- 
89 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ing  of —  this."  He  raised  his  head  and  turned 
his  eyes'towards  her,  as  if  to  illustrate  his  mean- 
ing. "  We  may  as  well  speak  of  it  first  as  last. 
I  know  I  'm  not  the  fellow  I  was  when  you  knew 
me  at  Idlewilde,  and  there 's  no  use  trying  to  hide 
the  fact." 

His  voice  was  quiet  and  steady,  as  if  he  had 
put  himself  under  a  severe  strain ;  but  his  hands 
gripped  each  other  nervously.  Elinor  was  silent, 
and  he  went  on,  — 

"  Don't  think  I  am  given  to  talking  about  it. 
As  a  rule,  I  let  it  alone ;  but  it 's  a  little  differ- 
ent with  you.  People  here  got  used  to  it  by 
degrees ;  but,  that  first  night,  I  knew  you  were 
taken  by  surprise.  It's  horrible  to  be  saying 
this,  only  —  can't  you  see?  —  the  only  way  to 
get  round  it  was  to  walk  straight  into  the 
middle  of  it,  for  it  kept  standing  in  the  way 
and  spoiling  all  our  talks." 

It  was  painful  to  watch  him  and  listen  to  him. 
Elinor  felt  that  she  could  bear  no  more. 

"  Please,  don't,  Mr.  Heaton,"  she  said,  starting 
up  from  her  chair  and  moving  a  step  or  two  away 
from  him.  "  I  wish  you  would  n't  say  this." 

He  looked  hurt. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It 's  an  un- 
usual thing  to  do,  I  know.  *> Perhaps  I  'd  better 
not  have  spoken  about  it,  only  I  thought  it 
might  make  it  easier  for  you." 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  she  said  half  impatiently. 
90 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Don't  you  know  what  I  have  wanted  to  say : 
that  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  so  sorry  for  what 
you  must  have  suffered,  and  that  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  to  make  it  less  unbearable?  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  so ;  but  I  was  —  afraid." 

His  color  came. 

"Am  I  so  changed,  then?  You  would  have 
said  it  at  Idlewilde." 

She  dared  not  tell  him  that  his  blindness  made 
the  difference,  that  she  shrank  from  meeting  his 
eyes,  now  that  the  life  had  gone  out  from  them. 
She  stood  looking  down  at  him  for  a  moment, 
wishing  that  he  could  read  her  unspoken  pity 
and  not  force  her  to  seek  the  right  words  to 
say.  Her  instinct  seemed  to  have  failed  her. 
Under  the  quiet  endurance  to  which  he  had 
trained  himself,  she  could  see  that  he  was  as 
sensitive  as  a  man  could  be.  In  the  coming 
days  she  would  be  glad  that  he  had  spoken  of 
his  trouble ;  but  the  present  moment  was  a  try- 
ing one,  and  it  needed  all  her  tact  to  meet  him 
on  his  own  ground.  With  a  great  effort  at  self- 
mastery,  she  seated  herself  again  and  said,  with 
something  of  her  old  friendly  manner,  — 

"  It  is  better  that  we  have  spoken  about  it, 
even  if  I  can't  do  anything  but  say  I  am  sorry. 
I  wish  you  would  tell  me  all  about  it,  all  that  has 
happened  since  I  saw  you." 

"  If  you  care  to  know.  It 's  such  an  old  story 
here  that  it  seems  as  if  every  one  I  met  had 
91 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

been  told.  It  was  overwork,  in  the  first  place. 
I  had  just  been  to  an  oculist  when  I  met  you, 
and  he  had  told  me  what  must  come,  but  he 
could  n't  tell  me  when.  I  did  n't  feel  like  seeing 
people  I  knew,  that  summer,  so  Jack  and  I  went 
West.  Then  we  came  home,  and  I  waited  for 
fourteen  months.  Heaven  only  knows  how  I 
should  have  gone  through  it,  if  it  had  n't  been 
for  Jack  and  my  sister.  They  carried  me  along 
in  some  way ;  but  it  was  a  relief  when  it  came. 
The  waiting  from  one  week  to  another,  not  dar- 
ing to  make  so  much  as  a  dinner  engagement 
without  a  mental  reservation,  was  n't  a  pretty 
thing  to  do.  Since  then,  I  have  jogged  on 
through  life  at  about  Dexter's  old  pace,  and 
found  my  main  employment  in  learning  to 
grin  and  bear  it." 

Elinor  bit  her  lip  nervously  for  a  moment. 

"  How  do  you  bear  it?  "  she  burst  out.  "  It 
shuts  you  off  from  everything  and  leaves  you 
alone,  in  spite  of  anything  we  can  do.  And  all 
those  days  at  Idlewilde  you  knew  it  was  com- 
ing, and  you  never  told  us,  nor  let  us  suspect  it 
at  all." 

"  I  never  could  have  spoken  of  it,"  he 
answered  steadily.  "  At  that  time,  I  did  n't 
dare  to  think  of  it,  even.  It  used  to  stop  my 
breath,  sometimes,  and  all  I  could  do  was  to  try 
to  forget  it.  That  was  where  you  helped  me  so 
much." 

92 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you  now,"  she  said 
impetuously. 

"  You  have  helped  me  more  than  you  know. 
My  meeting  you  has  seemed  like  a  link  with  the 
old  days  when  I  really  lived,  and  it  has  given 
me  pluck  to  go  on.  Besides,  it  has  set  me  to 
writing  again,  and  I  have  just  finished  the  story 
I  began  at  Idlewilde,  two  years  ago." 

"  You  can  write,  then?     I  'm  so  glad." 

"  After  a  fashion,  with  Bertha  to  help  me.  It 
makes  work  for  her ;  but  she  is  always  so  good 
to  help  me  along.  She  has  n't  been  away  from 
me  since  last  December,  and  Jack  is  like  my 
other  self." 

There  was  another  pause.  With  an  effort, 
Elinor  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  steadily  into 
the  brown  ones  before  her.  They  were  a  little 
expressionless  and  stolid ;  otherwise  there  was 
nothing  to  show  that  their  work  was  done. 
She  found  it  impossible  to  realize  that  Heaton 
was  sitting  there  in  the  darkness ;  yet  the 
strange,  overmastering  fear  came  back  to  her 
as  she  looked  at  him.  It  was  as  if  another  and 
a  different  atmosphere  surrounded  him,  and  she 
were  powerless  to  enter  it. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  don't  misunder- 
stand me,  for  I  mean  it  so  truly ;  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  for  you.  I  am  at  your  sister's  so 
much  of  the  time,  and  she  never  treats  me  like 
a  stranger.  Why  could  n't  I  —  " 
93 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  It  is  n't  anything  that  you  can  do,"  he  re- 
plied, as  he  rose  and,  feeling  for  the  mantel 
beside  him,  stood  leaning  against  it.  "  I  have 
been  so  frank  that  I  might  as  well  go  on  and 
tell  you  what  I  thought  when  I  came  here.  If 
you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  take  things  as 
they  are,  and  not  feel  all  the  time  as  if  you  were 
fencing  with  something  that  you  could  never 
touch,  we  both  shall  find  it  easier.  It  is  only 
the  old  problem  once  more :  given,  fate ; 
required,  the  best  of  things." 

Ned's  step  was  heard  in  the  hall.  Elinor  rose 
and  stood  beside  her  guest. 

"  I  am  glad  that  we  have  talked  it  out,  Mr. 
Heaton,"  she  said.  "  Next  time  we  meet,  it  will 
be  at  the  precise  point  where  we  separated  at 
Idlewilde,  and  I  shall  expect  you  to  give  me 
tidings  of  Miss  Winnie." 

She  followed  them  to  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  after  them,  while  Ned  carefully  led  his 
companion  down  the  strange  flight  of  steps. 
Then  she  shut  the  door  abruptly  and,  hurrying 
away  to  her  room,  she  locked  herself  in  and 
flung  herself,  face  downward,  upon  the  bed. 


94 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  season  was  nearing  an  end  and  Lent  was 
at  hand.  In  some  way  or  other  the  months  had 
flown  past,  and  Elinor's  first  year  of  work  was 
more  than  half  over.  In  spite  of  slow,  monoto- 
nous toil,  in  spite  of  days  of  discouragement 
when  Arturo  scolded  her  and  her  voice  seemed 
to  fail  her  entirely,  she  had  gone  on  untiringly. 
Since  the  time,  more  than  two  years  before, 
when  she  had  laughingly  announced  her  inten- 
tion of  trying  what  good  might  be  in  her  voice, 
she  had  never  turned  aside  from  her  purpose. 
She  rarely  spoke  of  what  that  purpose  might 
be ;  but,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  there  was  the 
dogged  determination  to  become  a  singer  who 
should  deserve  the  name.  Unfortunately  for 
her  ambition,  she  had  long  since  proved  that 
opera  and  its  vocal  pyrotechnics  were  out  of  the 
question  for  her.  Whatever  talent  she  might 
have,  lay  in  other  directions,  and  she  could 
only  hope  to  succeed  in  the  field  of  oratorio  or 
concert  work. 

At  times  even  that  seemed  doubtful.     It  is 
no  light  matter  to  be  the  owner  of  a  possible 
95 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

voice,  and  Arturo  was  a  notorious  tyrant,  in  so 
far  as  his  pupils  were  concerned.  They  dieted, 
they  exercised  at  stated  intervals,  they  slept  at 
regular  hours ;  otherwise,  they  went  in  search 
of  another  teacher.  To  all  these  things  Elinor 
gave  herself  up  unhesitatingly.  Her  one  choice 
had  been  made  when  she  selected  her  master; 
now  she  was  ready  to  rely  upon  his  judgment 
and  experience,  to  obey  his  commands  to  the 
letter.  To  one  less  enthusiastic,  it  would  have 
been  a  tedious  time ;  and  there  were  moments 
when  Elinor,  even,  was  half  inclined  to  abandon 
her  undertaking. 

She  had  never  supposed  that  one  could  have 
as  many  faults  as  she  suddenly  had  appeared  to 
develop.  Her  voice  was  improperly  placed; 
her  breathing  was  bad,  and  her  tongue  was 
always  going  astray.  There  are  few  experiences 
more  humiliating  than  to  practise,  day  after  day, 
with  one's  eyes  fixed  upon  a  mirror  set  up  to 
serve  as  a  detective,  so  far  as  one's  faults  are 
concerned.  One  loses  mental  perspective,  and 
the  tongue  becomes  hideously  prominent. 
However,  Elinor  toiled  on,  rewarded  by  an 
occasional  nod  of  approval  from  her  teacher, 
and  she  soon  learned  that  his  gruff  "  Go  on  " 
was  the  highest  praise  for  which  she  could 
hope. 

"  Still,"  he  remarked,  one  day,  resting  his 
elbows  on  the  piano,  and  screwing  himself 
96 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

around  to  look  at  her ;  "  you  are  better  than  I 
had  thought,  signorina.  You  were  very  bad 
indeed  for  a  long  time.  Do  not  think  you  are 
good  now,"  he  added  hastily.  "  There  is  much 
for  you  to  unlearn  yet,  but  there  is  a  certain 
purity  of  tone  which  says  to  me  that  I  must  not 
dismay.  Time  will  do  much,  and  patience  will 
do  more.  No?" 

"But when  can  I  begin  to  sing?"  she  asked 
a  little  wearily.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
done  nothing  yet." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Ah,  you  are  tired.  You  must  not  be.  I  am 
never,  never  tired  and  I  am  but  one,  while  there 
are  many  of  you.  You  cannot  make  a  singer  in 
a  day,  and  you  can  never  make  a  singer  unless 
you  have  the  three  gifts :  the  voice,  the  ear,  and 
the  musical  passion.  You  have  the  ear,  and  I 
shall  try  to  make  the  voice ;  but  the  musical  pas- 
sion must  come  of  itself.  You  sing  now  as  if  you 
were  made  of  bones,  not  blood.  To  sing,  you 
must  have  lived.  And  even  that  is  not  enough ; 
you  must  have  lived  outside  of  your  own  life. 
A  music  box  is  very  soothing ;  but  it  can  never 
stir  us  till  the  tears  fall.  That  is  what  a  singer 
must  do,  signorina.  To  sing,  that  is  to  have  a 
mission,  and  you  must  undertake  it  with  con- 
viction and,  above  all,  with  reverence." 

His  little  dark  eyes  were  not  fixed  upon  her ; 
but  were   gazing   thoughtfully    beyond,    as    if 
7  97 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

towards  the  far-away  source  of  all  music.  For 
the  moment,  his  round,  chubby  face  was  trans- 
figured ;  then  abruptly  he  returned  to  the 
present  time  and  place. 

"  Now,  once  again  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Now  ! 
Bourn,  bourn,  ta  ta  ta  ta  ta  to,  turn,  pom, pa-a-am! 
Ah,  you  are  too  late !  Here  am  I  singing  all 
the  brasses  and  everything,  and  when  I  get 
there,  you  don't  do  anything,  you  know.  You 
should  feel  the  music,  and  then  you  would  be 
ready.  Let  us  don't  lose  any  more  time,  and 
remember  to  pray  very  sweetly,  to  get  what  you 
want.  Open  the  mouth  wide,  so  that  the  sound 
can  come  forth.  Ah-h-h-h !  You  are  forget- 
ting the  tongue." 

"  To  think,"  Elinor  said  to  Heaton,  that 
night ;  "  that  singing  like  this  depends  upon 
such  details  !  Fancy  Elsa  being  scolded  about 
her  tongue,  and  practising  her  high  notes  in 
front  of  a  mirror !  I  suppose  that  is  what  they 
all  have  to  go  through ;  but  we  don't  realize  it." 

"  Shakespeare  had  to  learn  to  spell,"  he  was 
beginning,  with  a  smile,  when  Elinor  interrupted 
him. 

"  No,  he  did  n't ;  at  least,  not  very  thoroughly, 
and  that  Ortrud  didn't  learn  to  sing.  Still, 
exceptions  appear  to  prove  the  rule,  and  we 
belong  to  the  unhappy  majority  who  have  to 
learn  the  A,  B,  C,  of  our  trade.  But  tell  me,  are 
you  still  writing?" 

98 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Now  and  then  a  little.  It's  much  harder 
work  now,  you  know;  and  it  isn't  often  I'm 
feeling  like  it.  My  Idlewilde  story  will  be  out, 
next  week.  May  I  send  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  always  like  to  see  what  my 
friends  are  doing,  and  this  is  peculiarly  my 
story,  you  know,  as  long  as  I  prompted  you  to 
finish  it.  Why  not  read  it  to  me,  some  day, 
before  it  comes  out?" 

She  had  made  the  remark  carelessly,  for  her 
attention  had  been  distracted  for  the  moment. 
Too  late  she  saw  her  mistake,  as  Heaton 
answered  briefly,  — 

"You  are  demanding  the  impossible,  Miss 
Tiemann.  I  can  type  my  stories  with  the  aver- 
age amount  of  correctness ;  but  then  I  have  to 
wait  for  some  one  to  read  them  over  to  me,  on 
approval." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  the  some  one,"  she  an- 
swered gently.  "  It  must  be  a  treat  to  read  a 
new  story  before  the  author  himself  has  done  it. 
Most  of  us  have  to  wait  until  the  freshness  is 
quite  worn  off.  There  goes  the  curtain." 

She  had  found  a  note  awaiting  her,  on  her 
return  from  her  lesson,  saying  that  Mr.  Emer- 
son had  had  the  offer  of  a  box  at  the  opera,  that 
night,  and  asking  her  to  dine  and  go  with  them. 
Elinor  had  promptly  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  she  had  so  much  enjoyed  the  cosy  little 
dinner  alone  with  the  Emersons  and  Heaton 
99 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

that  she  had  been  almost  sorry  when  the  car- 
riage was  announced. 

At  the  close  of  the  first  act,  she  had  risen,  and, 
leaving  the  Emersons  who  were  busy  in  recog- 
nizing their  friends  scattered  through  the  house, 
she  had  moved  to  the  back  of  the  box  where 
Heaton  had  been  sitting  alone. 

"  Is  it  satisfactory?"  he  asked,  as  she  sat 
down  at  his  side. 

"  Perfect,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh  of  con- 
tent. "  You  know  I  Ve  never  heard  '  Lohengrin ' 
before.  I  have  been  brought  up  on  Italian 
opera,  and  this  is  a  revelation  to  me." 

"  How  is  the  setting?     Good?  " 

"  Beyond  criticism ;  or,  at  least,  I  'm  not  in  a 
critical  mood.  If  you  could  only  see  it  all,  and 
"enjoy  it  with  us  !  It  makes  me  feel  deplorably 
selfish  to  have  so  much  more  than  my  share." 

"  What 's  the  use  ?  "  he  asked.  "  At  least,  I 
can  hear  it,  and  that  is  something  to  be  thankful 
for.  Some  day,  I  hope  I  am  going  to  hear 
you.  I  never  heard  you  sing  but  once,  that 
night  in  the  boat.  Do  you  remember?  " 

Elinor  nodded.  Then,  recollecting  herself, 
she  said,  — 

"  I  remember.  T  was  the  night  we  went  to 
the  hop;  wasn't  it?  I  sang  the  little  Kiicken 
'  Schlummerlied.'  I  hope  I  can  do  better  than 
that  now,  though  Arturo  might  tell  a  different 
story,  I  am  afraid." 

100 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  run  across  Jack, 
there  at  the  studio?" 

"  Mr.  Wyckoff  ?  No.  Is  he  a  fellow-sufferer 
there?" 

"  Did  n't  you  know  it?  He  has  a  good  voice, 
and  he  has  studied  with  Arturo  for  a  long  time." 

"Remember  that  Jack,  as  you  call  him,  is 
still  a  myth  to  me.  I  have  never  seen  him,  in 
spite  of  the  numberless  times  we  have  just 
missed  each  other,  and  I  begin  to  have  serious 
doubts  of  his  existence.  What  is  he  like,  any- 
way?" 

"  He  used  to  be  a  wonderfully  handsome 
fellow,  and  they  say  he  has  n't  changed  much. 
I  always  think  of  him  as  he  looked,  the  last 
time  he  dined  here  before  my  eyes  gave  out. 
He  was  in  full  panoply,  for  he  was  going  on  to 
some  other  places.  I  never  saw  him  brighter 
nor  more  stunning,  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 
He  came  to  see  me,  two  days  later ;  but  it  was 
too  late." 

"Was  it  as  sudden  as  that?"  Elinor  asked  in 
a  lower  voice. 

"  Yes ;  it  does  n't  take  long,  under  some  cir- 
cumstances. I  read  the  '  Rubaiyat,'  that  morn- 
ing. I  used  to  live  on  it,  in  those  days.  But 
this  is  a  very  inappropriate  subject,  Miss  Tie- 
mann.  You  were  asking  about  Jack.  He  is  a 
fellow  that  everybody  likes ;  there  probably 
is  n't  a  more  popular  man  in  the  city.  He  is  a 
101 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

sort  of  a  hero  of  mine,  in  a  way,  for  he  is  suc- 
ceeding in  ail  the  things  that  I  used  to  try  for. 
I  don't  envy  him,  though ;  he  deserves  his  luck, 
if  only  for  the  way  he  has  stood  by  me.  I  want 
you  to  meet  him,  and  I  wonder  that  you  have  n't 
done  it,  long  ago.  He  is  at  the  house,  almost 
every  day." 

The  curtain  rose  just  then,  and,  with  a  word 
of  apology,  Elinor  left  him  and  moved  forward 
to  join  the  others. 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  several  friends  of  the 
Emersons  had  dropped  in  to  see  them,  and  the 
talk  had  been  the  impersonal  gossip  of  the  hour 
and  the  place.  In  the  interval  before  the  last 
act,  however,  Mrs.  Emerson  had  joined  her 
brother  at  the  back  of  the  box,  leaving  Mr. 
Emerson  to  entertain  their  guest.  Suddenly 
Elinor  turned  to  her  companion. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  abruptly ;  "  how 
Mr.  Heaton's  blindness  changes  things  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  Mr.  Emerson  asked. 
"  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  I  don't,  myself,"  she  answered,  while  a  little 
troubled  look  came  into  her  eyes.  "  Even  in 
the  little  time  we  used  to  know  each  other,  we 
were  such  good  friends ;  and  now  I  seem  to  say 
the  wrong  thing  to  him  so  often.  I  'm  so  sorry 
for  him,  and  I  like  him  so  much ;  but  I  am  con- 
tinually making  mistakes  when  I  am  with  him. 
I  don't  realize  where  I  am  going  until  the  mis- 
102 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

chief  is  done,  and  then  it 's  too  late,  for  I  can't 
apologize.  I  wish  we  could  get  back  on  the 
old  ground ;  but  it  appears  to  be  impossible." 

"  Poor  Tom ! "  said  Mr.  Emerson  gravely. 
"  I  know  how  it  is  with  you.  He  generally 
shuts  his  teeth  and  goes  through  his  bad  times 
by  himself;  but  it  has  been  a  terrible  blow  to 
him,  this  giving  up  all  his  plans,  and  it  has  left 
him  sensitive  and  sore  all  over.  Bertha  and 
Wyckoff  are  the  only  ones  who  know  just  how 
to  manage  him,  and  they  never  make  mistakes. 
There 's  Wyckoff  now,"  he  added,  as  the  door 
of  the  box  opened. 

Elinor  turned  around,  curious  to  see  the 
cousin  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much.  He 
was  bending  over  the  sofa  on  which  the  brother 
and  sister  were  lounging,  and  something  in  his 
bright  blue  eyes  and  his  tall  figure  struck  her  as 
being  familiar ;  but  she  studied  him  in  vain,  at 
a  loss  to  discover  the  secret  of  the  puzzling  re- 
semblance. He  glanced  once  or  twice  at  Elinor ; 
but  he  lingered  at  Heaton's  side,  laughing  and 
talking  with  his  cousins.  It  was  impossible  for 
Elinor  to  overhear  their  conversation;  but,  as 
she  stealthily  watched  them,  she  was  astonished 
at  the  change  in  Heaton's  face  and  manner. 
For  the  moment  he  had  lost  his  older,  saddened 
look,  and  his  face  was  bright  and  boyish  again 
as  she  had  not  seen  it  since  they  parted,  three 
years  before. 

103 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Wyckoff  remained  at  his  side  until  the  curtain 
rose  for  the  last  time.  Then,  arm  in  arm,  they 
came  forward.  A  moment  later,  he  had  been 
introduced  to  Elinor  and  had  dropped  into  the 
chair  between  herself  and  Heaton.  In  the  inter- 
est of  the  climax  of  the  opera,  conversation  was 
abandoned,  and  it  was  not  until  the  curtain  fell 
that  Elinor  had  the  opportunity  to  exchange 
more  than  an  occasional  word  with  him.  As 
they  left  the  box,  however,  on  their  way  to  the 
carriage,  he  placed  himself  at  her  side. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  feel  slightly  hurt,  Miss 
Tiemann,"  he  said  laughingly,  while  he  threw 
her  cloak  about  her  shoulders.  "  We  have  met 
before,  and  yet  you  obstinately  refuse  to  accept 
me  as  an  old  acquaintance." 

"  But  I  'm  sure  we  did  n't  meet,"  she  answered. 
"  You  had  left  Idlewilde  before  I  knew  Mr.  Hea- 
ton, and  we  had  gone  before  you  came  back. 
You  may  have  seen  me  there ;  but  I  know  we 
have  never  spoken  to  each  other  till  to-night." 

"  Alas  for  your  memory !  "  he  said.  "  I  was 
under  the  distinct  impression  that  I  had  not  only 
talked  with  you,  but  that  I  had  taken  a  short 
ride  with  you,  once  upon  a  time." 

She  looked  up  at  him  incredulously. 

"Where?" 

"  Here  in  New  York." 

"  I  know  you  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Wyckoff.  I 
wonder  whom  you  have  mixed  up  with  me.  I 
104 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

assure  you,  it 's  not  at  all  flattering  to  my  van- 
ity to  have  you  so  uncertain  about  your 
companions." 

"  Nor  to  mine  to  have  you  forget  me  so  com- 
pletely," he  replied.  "  I  do  remember  seeing 
you  at  Idlewilde,  before  I  went  away;  but  you 
appear  to  have  forgotten  the  day  you  called 
Arturo  a  little  monster." 

She  laughed  aloud,  such  a  gay  little  laugh, 
that  Heaton,  just  behind,  raised  his  head  to 
listen. 

"  Are  you  the  unhappy  man  who  was  taking 
a  lesson?  I  was  sorry  for  you  then,  even  if  I 
did  n't  say  so.  Experience  has  only  served  to 
increase  my  sympathy  for  you.  But  what  was 
the  ride?" 

"  In  the  elevator,  of  course.  I  can't  say  that 
I  enjoyed  it,  for  you  did  n't  appear  to  be  in  a 
happy  frame  of  mind,  and  you  scowled  at  me 
as  darkly  as  if  I  had  been  Arturo  himself.  You 
are  really  studying  with  him,  then?" 

"  Yes ;  at  least,  I  spend  two  hours  a  week  in 
being  maltreated  by  him.  I  knew  that  you 
were  one  of  his  pupils.  Mr.  Heaton  was  just 
speaking  of  it ;  but  I  never  thought  to  connect 
you  with  the  tenor  I  heard,  that  first  day.  You 
see,  you  were  nothing  but  a  voice  then,  a  mere 
abstraction." 

"  Let  us  hope  that,  in  time,  I  may  become 
something  more  concrete,"  he  returned  gayly, 
105 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

as  he  put  her  into  the  carriage.  "  I  say,  Tom," 
he  added,  while  he  helped  his  cousin  to  his 
seat ;  "  I  'm  coming  up,  to-morrow,  to  get  you 
to  go  down  to  the  Philharmonic  with  me.  Per- 
haps, if  I  am  very  good,  Miss  Tiemann  will  let 
you  take  me  to  call  on  her,  some  day.  Good 
night."  He  raised  his  hat,  and  was  lost  in  the 
crowd. 


106 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

BY  the  middle  of  May,  the  Emersons  were 
settled  in  their  summer  home,  in  one  of  the 
suburban  towns  overlooking  the  Sound.  For 
the  past  year  or  two,  they  had  gone  out  of  town 
earlier  than  usual,  partly  for  the  sake  of  baby 
Ruth,  who  was  never  as  well  in  the  city,  partly 
on  Heaton's  account.  Since  his  blindness,  the 
social  life  of  the  town  had  become  painful  to 
him,  although  it  had  been  impossible  for  him 
to  escape  from  it  entirely.  He  had  never  been 
a  society  man,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term, 
and  he  had  submitted  rather  impatiently  to  the 
efforts  of  his  friends  to  make  a  lion  of  him.  It 
was  as  Elinor  had  said,  three  years  before.  His 
cousin  and  his  sister  drew  him  into  their  round 
of  gayety ;  but  he  had  been  best  content  when 
he  could  step  aside  and  watch  the  procession  as 
it  swept  past  him.  He  had  been  looked  up  to 
and  admired ;  he  had  been  a  popular  man  in  a 
way,  but  it  was  a  popularity  mingled  with  a  little 
feeling  of  awe,  and  not  at  all  like  that  inspired 
by  his  more  approachable  cousin. 

Then  his  blindness  had  come  and  put  an  end 
to  it  all.     Until  then,  Heaton  had  never  realized 
107 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

how  much  he  had  enjoyed  his  social  success. 
It  had  been  easy  to  disdain  it;  but  when  he 
was  forced  to  step  to  one  side  and  become  a 
passive  listener,  it  suddenly  grew  desirable  again. 
Left  to  himself,  he  would  have  shut  himself 
away  from  the  world ;  but  his  sister  was  too  wise 
to  allow  that,  and  she  usually  succeeded  in  coax- 
ing him  to  put  in  a  tardy  appearance  at  most 
of  the  dinners  and  receptions  which  she  gave. 
More  than  that  she  could  not  do.  Heaton  quietly 
declined  to  go  out  with  her,  and  she  was  forced 
to  content  herself  with  this  compromise. 

Strange  to  say,  he  had  found  that  his  mascu- 
line friends  had  been  more  loyal  to  him  than 
the  women  by  whom  he  had  formerly  been  so 
graciously  received.  In  his  more  bitter  moods, 
he  attributed  this  to  the  fact  of  his  uselessness 
from  a  social  point  of  view.  The  man  who 
could  neither  act  as  escort,  dance,  nor  forage 
at  a  crowded  table,  he  reasoned,  had  no  right  to 
exist.  He  should  move  to  one  side,  to  make 
room  for  his  more  utilitarian  brethren.  The 
fact  was,  however,  that  the  cause  lay  in  the  iso- 
lation of  his  blindness,  in  the  vague  discomfort 
which  it  roused  in  the  people  before  him.  The 
women  he  had  known  earlier  in  his  life,  who 
had  danced  with  him  and  talked  to  him  in  dimly- 
lighted  conservatories,  now  stood  aloof  and 
watched  him  in  silent  pity,  powerless  to  think 
of  a  word  to  say  to  him. 
108 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"There's  poor  Tom  Heaton,  sitting  alone 
over  there  in  the  corner,"  they  were  accustomed 
to  whisper  to  each  other.  "  I  wonder  if  he  'd 
be  hurt,  if  I  offered  to  sit  out  a  dance  with  him." 

But  they  never  did  sit  out  a  dance  with  him ; 
and  little  by  little  their  acquaintance  with  him 
had  almost  come  to  an  end.  It  was  better  that 
it  should,  Heaton  felt.  In  their  occasional 
conversations,  he  had  been  quick  to  realize  the 
embarrassment  of  which  he  was  the  cause,  and 
it  had  rendered  their  intercourse  a  painful  ordeal 
on  both  sides. 

That  was  during  the  first  winter,  when  his 
trouble  was  fresh  upon  him,  while,  quite  as  fresh 
in  all  their  minds,  there  was  the  recollection  of 
what  he  formerly  had  been.  By  the  second 
season,  it  had  come  to  be  a  recognized  fact  that 
he  should  lurk  in  the  background,  and  find  his 
sole  variety  in  the  companionship  of  his  men 
friends,  who  rarely  failed  to  seek  him  out  for  a 
few  moments  before  the  evening  was  over. 

In  all  this  experience,  Elinor  had  been  the 
one  exception.  In  spite  of  her  first  evening  of 
discomfort  with  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
she  too  shared  the  general  feeling  of  awe  which 
he  called  up,  she  had  proved  a  loyal  friend. 
Her  position  as  a  privileged  guest  of  the  house 
had  made  her  able  to  disregard  the  conventional 
prejudice  which  forbade  her  companions  to  go 
to  the  man  who  could  not  go  to  them.  She 
109 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

had  gone  to  his  side  repeatedly,  when  she  had 
seen  him  deserted,  and  she  had  never  failed  to 
find  a  welcome.  To  be  sure,  the  conversation 
had  frequently  languished,  and  they  both  had 
been  conscious  of  points  of  danger  which  had 
been  avoided  only  with  difficulty;  but,  after  all, 
Heaton  had  come  to  rely  upon  her  companion- 
ship for  at  least  a  part  of  every  evening  they 
were  together,  and  he  quickly  learned  to  antici- 
pate her  bright  chatter,  which  formed  an  enjoy- 
able contrast  to  the  more  ponderous  conversation 
of  the  men. 

Long  before  the  season  was  ended,  their  com- 
panionship had  ripened  into  a  sort  of  intimacy. 
They  had  liked  each  other  from  the  first  moment 
of  their  meeting;  their  tastes  were  allied,  for 
music  and  literature  must  always  go  hand  in 
hand.  Even  the  little  feeling  of  remoteness 
between  them  was  fast  dying  away.  For  this, 
Heaton  was  largely  responsible.  Since  the  day 
of  his  first  mentioning  his  blindness  to  Elinor, 
he  had  never  avoided  the  subject;  but  he  had 
alluded  to  it  in  a  matter-of-course  tone  which 
had  restored  much  of  their  old  friendly  freedom. 
When  the  subject  had  to  be  mentioned,  they 
accepted  it  as  a  fact,  and  spoke  of  it  without 
reserve ;  otherwise  they  disregarded  it  entirely, 
as  being  an  insignificant  detail  which  in  no  way 
affected  their  friendly  relations.  All  this  was 
inexpressibly  comforting  to  Heaton.  As  a  rule, 
no 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

he  was  constantly  annoyed  by  the  cold  neglect 
or  the  elaborate  attentions  of  his  companions; 
and  Elinor's  off-hand  way  of  looking  out  for 
his  comfort  was  as  soothing  as  it  was  unusual. 

Arturo  had  been  called  to  Boston,  for  a  week 
at  Easter,  and  Elinor  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
temporary  break  in  her  work,  to  spend  the  time 
with  the  Emersons.  There  she  and  Heaton  had 
been  continually  together,  often  alone,  for  Mrs. 
Emerson  was  a  mother  of  the  old-fashioned 
type,  and  gave  several  hours  of  each  day  to 
little  Ruth.  Under  these  circumstances,  their 
friendship  ripened  rapidly.  Elinor  had  been 
tireless  in  her  attentions  to  Heaton,  singing  and 
reading  aloud  to  him,  or  discussing  his  work  with 
him,  all  in  a  careless,  good-natured  way  which 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  feel  any  lasting 
sense  of  indebtedness. 

She  had  no  wish  that  he  should  feel  it.  She 
liked  Heaton  sincerely,  and  she  always  enjoyed 
meeting  him  and  talking  with  him.  In  her  New 
York  life,  she  had  found  no  one  who  was  more 
congenial  to  her ;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  in  all 
this  increasing  intimacy,  she  had  never  thought 
of  him  as  anything  but  a  friend.  If  she  had 
stopped  to  analyze  her  impressions,  she  would 
have  told  herself  that  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  be  anything  else.  Other  men  she  could  meet 
and  contemplate,  in  time,  as  possible  lovers ;  but 
Heaton  seemed  to  her  to  be  shut  off  from  all 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

that  side  of  life.  His  blindness  had  ended  that 
for  him.  He  was  as  far  removed  from  all  ques- 
tions of  love  as  he  was  from  reading  the  daily 
papers  to  her.  For  this  reason,  there  was 
nothing  unconventional,  to  her  mind,  in  their 
friendship.  It  was  just  friendship,  nothing 
more ;  and  it  was  as  such  that  she  enjoyed  it. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  Emersons'  piazza.,  one 
night  in  June,  watching  the  twilight  creep  over 
the  lawn  and  over  the  blue  Sound  which  stretched 
away  beyond.  Since  they  had  left  the  city  for 
the  season,  she  had  seen  her  friends  much  less 
often.  It  had  been  impossible  for  her  to  take 
the  time  from  her  work  to  run  out  of  town  for 
the  frequent  calls  which  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  make,  when  they  were  within  a  few 
blocks  of  her.  She  had  missed  them  constantly, 
and  the  warm  days  of  early  summer  were  begin- 
ning to  wear  upon  her.  She  was  tired  of  the 
noise  and  hurry  of  the  city ;  she  was  sick  of 
the  glare  of  the  baked  pavements  and  of  the 
smell  of  the  dusty  streets.  It  had  been  a 
relief  to  turn  her  back  upon  them,  even  for  a 
few  hours,  and  to  enjoy  the  quiet  country  home 
and  the  congenial  atmosphere  of  the  dinner- 
table. 

After  dinner,  Mr.  Emerson  had  gone  to  his 

evening  paper  and  his  evening  cigar,  and  Mrs. 

Emerson  had  excused  herself  for  a  few  moments, 

to   give   some   necessary  orders  to  her  maids. 

112 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Elinor  sat  quiet  for  a  little  while  after  she  went 
away.     Then  she  started  up. 

"  Mr.  Heaton,  I  must  go  out  on  the  lawn.  It 
is  so  long  since  I  have  walked  on  any  grass  that 
I  want  to  see  how  it  feels.  Don't  come  with  me 
unless  you  like ;  but  I  really  can't  sit  still  any 
longer." 

He  had  already  risen,  and  he  fell  into  step  at 
her  side,  as  she  moved  off  across  the  lawn  which 
sloped  gently  down  to  the  water's  edge.  Inside 
the  house,  his  step  was  firmer ;  but  here  it  was  a 
little  uncertain.  Elinor  hesitated  for  a  moment ; 
then  she  tucked  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"  It  makes  it  easier  to  keep  in  step,"  she  said 
apologetically.  "  But  you  don't  know  how  good 
it  is  to  feel  the  country  around  me  again.  I 
begin  to  rejoice  that  I  am  going  home  in  ten 
days." 

"  So  soon  as  that?  " 

She  was  surprised  at  the  note  of  regret  in  his 
voice. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  through  with  my  lessons  on 
the  twentieth,  and  I  shall  start  for  home,  the 
next  day." 

"But  you  are  coming  back?" 

"  I  'm  not  sure.  It  all  depends  on  Arturo.  If 
he  is  no  more  encouraging  than  he  has  been  for 
the  last  month,  I  may  give  up.  But  I  want  to 
tell  you ;  I  read  your  '  Wheels  within  Wheels,' 
the  other  day." 

8  113 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  How  did  you  like  it?  "  he  asked  quickly,  for 
he  had  come  to  depend  upon  talking  over  his 
work  with  her. 

"  It  is  your  best  work  yet,"  she  said,  with  a 
frankness  which  bore  no  taint  of  flattery.  "  It 
is  more  logical ;  but  it  is  so  pitiless.  I  confess 
to  a  few  tears  over  the  ending,  even  if  it  was  the 
one  inevitable  result." 

He  smiled. 

"  I  think  I  must  have  rather  a  genius  for  the 
pathetic.  I  don't  start  for  it  at  all ;  but  my 
characters  always  come  to  some  untimely  end, 
instead  of  rioting  properly." 

"  Are  you  doing  anything  now?  "  she  asked,  as 
they  paused  at  the  water's  edge,  and  stood  listen- 
ing to  the  little  waves  that  crawled  up  across  the 
sand. 

"  No ;  I  mean  to  rest  and  do  nothing,  all  sum- 
mer long.  It 's  warm  work,  wallowing  in  woe, 
with  the  thermometer  in  the  nineties.  Besides, 
there  's  Bertha,  you  know.  I  don't  like  to  make 
her  work  so  much." 

"Does  she  do  much  of  it?"  Elinor  asked. 
"Forgive  me  if  I  seem  inquisitive ;  but  I  Ve  often 
wondered  how  much  you  can  do,  yourself." 

"  Only  a  little.  One  of  the  first  things  I  did, 
after  I  knew  my  eyes  were  going  to  give  out, 
was  to  learn  to  use  a  typewriter.  I  can  do 
that  fairly  well ;  but  of  course  I  can't  read  over 
what  I  have  written,  and  I  get  into  a  hopeless 
114 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

tangle,  every  now  and  then.  My  manuscripts 
are  strange-looking  things  when  they  go  into 
Bertha 's  hands ;  but  she  generally  contrives  to 
puzzle  them  out  and  put  them  in  order." 

"  Is  n't  there  some  other  kind  of  a  way  you 
could  write  ?  "  she  said  slowly.  It  was  a  ques- 
tion she  had  often  longed  to  put,  yet  now  she 
shrank  from  it. 

"  How  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  thought  there  was  an  alphabet  you  could 
learn  to  write  and  then  to  read  over  what  you  had 
written.  Would  n't  it  be  a  help  ?  "  she  asked 
bravely,  though  her  hand  shook  a  little,  as  it 
rested  on  his  arm. 

The  idea  seemed  to  please  him. 

"I  remember  now, —  Braille,  isn't  it?  I 
remember  hearing  something  about  it,  years 
ago,  before  I  ever  thought  I  could  have  any 
personal  interest  in  it.  I  'm  glad  you  spoke 
of  it.  There  must  be  places  in  town  where 
they  teach  it,  and  I  '11  take  it  up,  in  the  fall. 
It 's  only  a  question  of  my  touch.  That  is  n't 
acute  at  all,  you  see,  and  even  my  typewriter 
troubles  me  sometimes.  I  suppose  it  is  one 
of  the  disadvantages  of  growing  blind  so  late 
in  life." 

"Your  touch  can  be  trained;  can't  it?"  she 

said.     "I  —  we  all  want  you  to  do  everything 

that  makes  it  easier  for  you  to  write,  for  we 

must  have  your  stories,  no  matter  how  much 

"5 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

work  they  make  for  you.  And  you  enjoy  it, 
yourself,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  replied  thoughtfully;  "and  no. 
When  I  am  writing  and  it  all  goes  well,  I  think 
there 's  nothing  better ;  but  when  the  mood 
passes,  I  am  always  disgusted  to  find  that  it 
really  amounts  to  so  little." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  fate  of  us  all,"  Elinor 
responded,  and  there  was  a  little  tone  of  despond- 
ency in  her  words.  "  Even  perfect  success  has 
its  disappointments.  My  own  dream  never  will 
be  fulfilled ;  but,  even  if  it  were,  I  should  pro- 
bably find  it  no  more  satisfactory  than  any  other 
air-castle." 

"What  is  the  dream?"  he  asked  curiously. 
"Or  don't  you  like  to  tell  it?" 

"  To  sing,"  she  answered  earnestly ;  "  to  sing 
just  once  in  public,  to  satisfy  myself.  I'd  work, 
and  slave,  and  starve,  even,  for  the  sake  of  ac- 
complishing it.  But  Arturo  says  it's  no  use, 
that  I  have  n't  the  ability,  and  that  I  am  too 
cold  to  be  an  artist,  a  real  musician.  I  am 
afraid  he  is  right ;  but  still  I  keep  on  hoping 
and  working.  I  try  to  believe  your  old  creed 
you  quoted  at  Idlewilde;  but  I  am  afraid  my 
only  satisfaction  will  have  to  come  from  my 
work,  not  from  the  success  that  ought  to 
follow." 

"  Let  the  success  take  care  of  itself,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  The  work  is  all  that  counts  for  much, 
116 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

and  there 's  nothing  better,  after  all.  Work 
for  work's  sake  is  the  real  thing.  When  your 
reputation  is  an  established  fact,  you  will  look 
back  to  this  very  year,  and  think  that  you  had  the 
best  of  life  then,  and  that  the  best  day  of  the 
year  was  the  day  you  were  working  hardest  to 
get  to  the  ideal  before  you." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Elinor  turned 
to  him  impulsively. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Heaton ;  I  believe  you  are 
right.  This  is  n't  the  first  time  that  you  have 
given  me  the  courage  to  go  on  with  my  work.  I 
only  wish  I  could  help  you  as  much." 

"  You  have,"  he  answered  humbly ;  "  more 
than  you  will  ever  know. " 


117 


CHAPTER     TWELVE 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  fourth  of  July, 
nearly  a  month  after  Elinor's  last  call  at  the 
Emersons'.  Heaton  was  lying  in  the  hammock 
at  the  end  of  the  piazza,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Emerson  were  sitting  on  the  steps,  watching  the 
rockets  as  they  shot  up  from  the  distant  city. 
A  strong  south  wind  was  blowing  up  from  the 
water,  and  across  the  lawn  they  could  hear  the 
regular  beating  of  the  waves  upon  the  sand, 
while,  far  away  to  the  south,  a  faint  line  of 
light  showed  the  rising  moon. 

At  length,  Mr.  Emerson  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Gray,  this  morning,  and 
it  is  all  settled  that  we  are  to  have  the  cottage 
by  the  first  of  August.  Can  you  be  ready?" 

"  Of  course.  I  '11  be  ready  at  a  day's  notice," 
Mrs.  Emerson  replied  promptly.  "  Which  cot- 
tage is  it?" 

"  The  furnished  one  up  by  the  hotel.  Mrs. 
Gray  wants  us  to  let  her  maids  stay  there  while 
she  is  at  the  shore,  so  all  you  will  have  to  do 
will  be  to  make  out  a  list  of  the  provisions  you 
need  to  have  ordered,  and  to  pack  our  trunks." 
118 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Jack  is  talking  of  spending  a  week  at  the 
hotel  while  we  are  there,"  Mrs.  Emerson  said, 
as  she  made  room  for  her  son  to  seat  himself 
on  the  step  below  her.  "  I  tried  to  make  him 
think  that  it  would  be  pleasanter  for  him  at  the 
cottage;  but  he  insisted  that  he  wanted  the 
freedom  of  hotel  life.  How  much  room  is  there 
in  the  cottage  ?  " 

"All  we  need,  and  more  too,"  answered  her 
husband,  as  he  lighted  his  cigar.  "  Let 's  have 
somebody  to  stay  with  us.  We  may  as  well  fill 
the  house." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that.  What  do  you  say 
to  my  writing  to  ask  Elinor  Tiemann  to  come 
to  us?  I  think  she  has  no  settled  plans  for 
August,  and  she  always  seems  to  fit  into  the 
family  as  if  she  belonged  there.  What  do  you 
think  about  it,  Tom?" 

"What's  that?"  he  asked,  rolling  himself 
out  of  the  hammock  and  going  to  join  the 
group  on  the  steps. 

"  Of  my  asking  Elinor  to  spend  August  with 
us,"  she  repeated.  "  Edwin  has  heard  that  we 
can  have  the  Grays'  cottage,  and  now  we  want 
somebody  to  fill  it." 

"  You  know  I  always  like  Miss  Tiemann,"  he 
answered.  "  Have  you  heard  from  her,  since 
she  went  away  ?  " 

"Only  once,  the  letter  I  read  you.  I  was 
a  little  surprised  at  her  going  away  without 
119 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

coming  out  here  again  to  say  good-by.  I  saw 
her  in  town,  one  morning,  and  told  her  to  be 
sure  to  come  out  and  lunch  with  us." 

"  Miss  Tiemann  always  does  have  a  winsome 
fashion  of  suiting  her  own  convenience,  first  of 
all,"  Ned  remarked,  with  the  little  tone  of  con- 
scious superiority  which  six  months  of  boarding- 
school  life  can  develop  in  the  least  conceited 
of  boys. 

His  uncle  laughed. 

"  On  what  do  you  base  your  theory,  Ned  ?  " 
he  inquired.  "You  had  seen  her  just  twice 
when  you  went  away ;  and  I  think  you  have  n't 
seen  her  at  all  since  you  came  home  again." 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  boy  answered,  as  he 
leaned  back  and  rested  his  arm  across  his 
uncle's  knee.  "  She  seems  kind  of  slippery, 
somehow,  and  I  think  she  '11  be  no  addition  to 
our  fun  at  the  lake.  If  Cousin  Jack  goes  up, 
she  '11  take  all  of  his  time,  see  if  she  does  n't ; 
and  I  sha'n't  be  in  it  at  all." 

A  slight  expression  of  annoyance  crossed 
Heaton's  face.  Till  that  moment,  he  had  not 
realized  that  his  cousin  was  to  be  within  reach 
of  the  cottage.  He  had  been  counting  upon 
having  Elinor's  society  for  himself,  upon  drop- 
ping back  into  the  old  life  they  had  known  at 
Idlewilde. 

"  I  think  I  rather  agree  with  Ned,"  Mr.  Em- 
erson said  thoughtfully.  "Elinor  is  amazingly 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

superficial,  and  I  think  it  would  be  impossible 
for  her  to  feel  anything  very  deeply.  She  is  a 
child  in  character.  Still,  she  is  a  bright,  attrac- 
tive little  thing,  and  always  good  company,  and 
there  's  nobody  I  would  like  better  to  have  stay- 
ing with  us,  Bertha.  Is  she  coming  back  to 
New  York,  next  year?" 

"I  think  so.  Arturo  advises  it;  but  he  re- 
fuses to  promise  anything  for  her  future.  She 
is  n't  a  child  in  the  determination  she  has  shown 
about  her  singing.  Even  you  must  admit  that, 
Edwin." 

"  I  do  admit  it,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  rose ; 
"  and  she  certainly  deserves  to  succeed.  I  'm 
not  slandering  Elinor;  I  am  only  making  a 
critical  analysis  of  her  character.  She 's  all 
there,  only  she  needs  something  to  develop 
her.  She  may  find  it,  this  very  summer. 
Come,  my  scholastic  son,  come  out  and  take 
your  old  father  rowing,  and  leave  your  mother 
to  write  to  Miss  Tiemann.  Tell  her  to  be 
there  by  the  third,  Bertha.  Then,  if  she  comes 
back  for  another  year,  we  can  all  come  down 
together." 

"  I  think  Edwin  does  n't  quite  do  Elinor 
justice,"  Mrs.  Emerson  said,  after  her  husband 
had  left  them.  "  She 's  only  an  undeveloped 
child ;  but  I  am  very  fond  of  her,  and  I  think 
she  is  good  for  us  all." 

"  She  certainly  is  good  to  me,"  Heaton  said 

121 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

thoughtfully.  "  She  is  the  only  woman  left 
now,  except  you,  that  ever  has  a  word  to  say 
to  me." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  enjoy  her,  Tom.  I  think  that 
she  is  fond  of  you,  too.  Not  that  she 's  in  love 
with  you,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Eli- 
nor is  n't  given  to  sentiment ;  but  I  know  she 
always  enjoys  seeing  you  and  talking  things 
over  with  you." 

The  moon  had  come  up  above  the  horizon, 
and  its  pale  light  lay  across  the  water  and  the 
lawn,  and  fell  full  upon  Heaton's  face.  At  her 
last  words,  Mrs.  Emerson  could  see  a  sudden 
compression  of  her  brother's  lips.  Then  he 
said  briefly,  — 

"  She  must.  I  only  hope  she  appreciates  the 
privilege.  But  I  want  to  go  up  to  finish  my 
story."  And  he  rose. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Tom,"  his  sister  urged,  surprised 
at  his  sudden  change  of  tone.  "  It 's  too  late  to 
work,  to-night,  and  I  am  all  alone  here.  Stay 
with  me." 

"  I  can't,  Bertha,"  he  replied  more  gently. 
"I'm  in  the  mood  for  working  now,  and  I'd 
better  try  it." 

Unable  to  read  his  mood,  and  only  seeing 
that  something  had  hurt  him  more  than  she  had 
at  first  realized,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
his  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said  brightly,  — 

"  Go,  then,  and  inspiration  be  on  your  pen ! 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

I  will  write  a  note  to  Elinor.     Have  you  any 
message?" 

"  No ;  I  think  not.  No ;  not  any,"  he  said, 
as  he  turned  away. 

His  face  was  in  shadow  now,  and  his  sister 
could  not  see  the  little  quiver  of  his  lip.  She 
followed  him  into  the  house  and  up  to  his  den, 
to  assure  herself  that  everything  was  in  order 
for  his  work.  As  she  went  down-stairs  to  her 
own  desk,  she  heard  the  door  close  behind 
her. 

The  room  was  flooded  with  the  silvery  light 
which  came  in  at  the  two  open  windows,  stole 
across  the  floor,  and  rested  upon  the  great  writ- 
ing-table covered  with  papers  and  the  appli- 
ances for  his  work.  Heaton  took  one  or  two 
quick  turns  up  and  down  the  room.  Then, 
instead  of  sitting  down  at  his  table  and  going  on 
with  his  half-finished  story,  he  threw  himself  on 
the  broad  couch  by  the  window  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

In  spite  of  his  determination  to  do  no  work 
through  the  summer,  for  days  his  new  story  had 
been  absorbing  all  his  interest.  He  had  felt 
sure  that  this  was  to  be  his  best  effort,  and  he 
had  worked  at  it  with  an  almost  feverish  inten- 
sity of  purpose.  Now,  all  at  once,  he  saw  that 
it  was  only  a  string  of  empty  words  in  compar- 
ison with  the  real  story  in  the  midst  of  which  he 
was  living. 

*        "3 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

At  his  sister's  careless  words,  the  truth  had 
burst  upon  him  in  an  instant,  though  he  knew 
now  that  it  had  been  coming  to  him  for  weeks 
and  months,  and  that  unconsciously  he  had  put 
it  away  from  him,  as  something  in  which  he 
could  have  no  share.  For  the  past  three  or 
four  years,  ever  since  his  blindness  had  first 
threatened  him,  he  had  been  trying  to  reconcile 
himself  to  the  thought  that  love  must  never 
enter  into  his  life,  that  he  had  no  right  to  offer 
a  woman  what,  at  best,  could  be  only  a  partial 
gift.  He  had  supposed  he  had  learned  his 
lesson.  He  had  supposed  that  ne  was  enjoying 
Elinor  only  as  her  own  brother  might  have 
done.  Now,  all  at  once  and  too  late,  he 
recognized  his  mistake. 

And  this,  then,  was  love !  His  lip  curled 
scornfully,  as  he  recalled  the  day  when,  beside 
the  brook,  he  had  told  Elinor  that  he  lacked  the 
necessary  experience  to  write  a  novel.  The 
experience  had  come  to  him  now,  and  in  all  its 
bitterness,  for  he  could  never  tell  her  his  love 
and  ask  her  to  share  his  imperfect  life.  How 
long  had  he  loved  her?  Did  she  care  for  him? 
He  must  think  it  all  out. 

His  brain  was  throbbing.  His  hands,  clasped 
over  his  eyes,  could  feel  the  jar  of  the  blood 
pulsing  across  his  temples.  The  room  seemed 
suffocating  to  him;  and  he  started  up  and 
began  to  pace  the  floor  again.  Then  he  dropped 
124  * 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

into  a  chair  by  the  open  window,  and  rested  his 
face  against  the  cool  wood  of  the  casing. 

It  had  been  going  on  for  weeks  and  weeks, 
during  all  that  winter  of  frequent  and  informal 
meetings.  He  recalled  a  thousand  and  one 
little  circumstances  of  their  acquaintance,  of 
the  days  they  had  spent  at  Idlewilde,  of  his 
first  call  upon  her  in  New  York,  of  their  count- 
less friendly  talks.  She  had  been  so  thoughtful 
of  his  comfort,  had  shown  such  tact  in  her  little 
womanly  attentions.  His  sister,  even,  had  not 
been  kinder  to  him.  And  yet  she  had  hurt  him 
often  with  the  inconsiderate  words  which  had 
stung  him  to  the  quick.  Still,  from  her  they 
had  not  caused  him  half  the  pain  they  would 
have  done  from  the  lips  of  another  woman  ;  and 
now,  in  the  days  that  had  followed  her  going 
away,  he  would  have  been  glad  of  even  the 
hurt.  The  loneliness  was  the  hardest  of  it  all 
to  bear. 

For  one  moment,  he  half  resolved  to  write  to 
her,  to  tell  her  the  whole  story  and  try  to  win 
her  love,  as  another  man  would  have  done  in 
his  place.  Then  his  whole  nature  recoiled  from 
the  temptation.  He  could  offer  her  a  home 
and  all  the  luxuries  which  money  could  buy; 
he  could  offer  her  all  the  love  which  a  man 
could  bestow  upon  a  woman ;  but  it  would  be 
coupled  with  a  demand  for  constant  care  and 
attention  which  would  burden  her  young  woman- 
I25 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

hood  and  darken  her  whole  life.  She  could 
only  marry  him  out  of  pity,  and  he  would 
never  consent  to  ask  for  and  accept  so  great  a 
sacrifice.  No ;  he  must  go  through  it  alone 
and  make  no  sign. 

That  would  be  the  hardest  part  of  it  all,  to  be 
thrown  with  her  constantly,  to  have  to  keep  up 
the  same  old  relations  of  pleasant  friendship, 
and  never  allow  her  to  read  the  secret  of  his 
love.  If  he  had  been  the  hero  of  one  of  his 
own  stories,  he  could  have  cried  for  his  own 
sorrow.  As  it  was,  he  could  only  summon  all 
his  manliness  and  grind  his  teeth  together,  to 
make  no  sound  which  could  tell  of  his  pain. 
With  a  dull  feeling  of  pity  for  himself,  his  mind 
went  back  to  the  early  days  of  his  blindness. 
He  had  always  supposed  that  life  could  offer 
him  no  more  bitter  sorrow  than  he  had  known 
at  that  time ;  but  it  was  so  slight,  in  comparison 
with  the  present.  He  had  been  able  almost  to 
forget  his  blindness,  when  he  was  with  Elinor. 
If  only  they  could  have  spent  their  lives  together, 
the  rest  would  have  made  little  difference. 

All  at  once,  he  raised  his  head  abruptly. 
What  was  the  use  of  cringing  like  a  beaten 
hound?  Life  was  before  him,  teaching  him 
one  of  the  hardest  of  its  lessons.  He  was  no 
coward ;  he  must  learn  it  like  a  man.  He  would 
never  throw  himself  upon  the  generosity  of  a 
young  girl,  and  spoil  the  brilliant  career  for 
126 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

which  she  was  working.  Let  him  think  what 
to  do  first. 

After  all,  there  was  nothing  to  do.  That 
was  the  worst  of  it.  He  must  go  on  in  precisely 
the  old  way,  hiding  his  secret  from  them  all. 
Next  month,  they  would  be  together  again. 
He  tried  to  think  of  some  excuse  which  he 
could  offer  for  his  absence ;  but  he  knew  that 
it  would  only  break  up  the  plan.  It  was  on  his 
account  that  the  Emersons  had  chosen  the  quiet 
little  mountain  lake  where  he  could  have  more 
freedom  than  at  a  larger  resort.  He  must  go 
with  them,  at  whatever  cost  to  himself.  In  the 
mean  time,  he  could  be  teaching  himself  to  for- 
get. Perhaps  he  could  even  find  out  his  mis- 
take, and  learn  that  this,  after  all,  was  not  love. 

But,  down  in  his  secret  heart,  he  knew  that 
it  was  all  true,  that  he  loved  Elinor  Tiemann  as 
only  a  strong  man  can  love  the  one  woman  of 
his  choice,  and  that,  for  her  sake,  he  must  con- 
quer his  love.  His  head  fell  forward  again 
upon  his  clasped  hands,  and  he  remained  there 
motionless  while  the  moon  rode  up  across  the 
cloudless  sky,  until  it  left  him  sitting  in  deep 
shadow. 

At  last,  he  rose  with  an  effort,  crossed  the 
room  to  the  table,  and  took  up  the  finished 
sheets  of  his  story.  Impatiently  he  tore  them 
across  and  began  a  new  page.  Great  drops  of 
moisture  gathered  on  his  face,  for  the  room  was 
127 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

warm,  and  he  was  exhausted  with  his  struggle ; 
but  his  one  chance  of  forgetfulness  lay  in  his 
work,  and  he  turned  to  it,  as  by  instinct.  Hour 
after  hour  he  wrote  on,  regardless  of  the  striking 
of  the  little  clock  by  his  side ;  and  the  first  light 
of  the  new  day  found  him  still  at  his  self- 
appointed  task. 


128 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

THE  first  week  in  August  saw  Elinor  established 
in  the  Emersons'  cottage  at  the  lake.  She 
had  needed  little  urging  to  make  her  consent 
to  the  plan.  Mrs.  Mackie  was  going  abroad 
with  her  husband,  and  their  usual  month  at  the 
mountains  had  been  given  up  on  that  account. 
Elinor  had  been  trying  to  resign  herself  to  a 
prolonged  summer  at  Idlewilde,  when  Mrs. 
Emerson's  letter  had  reached  her. 

She  had  been  warmly  welcomed,  when  she 
had  reached  the  cottage,  tired  and  dusty  from 
her  three  days'  ride.  Ned  himself  forgot  his 
prejudice  when  she  came  down  to  supper,  that 
night,  for  a  long  nap  and  a  fresh  white  gown 
had  worked  a  wonderful  change  in  her  appear- 
ance, and  even  a  critical  youth  of  sixteen  is  not 
proof  against  the  charms  of  a  pretty  woman. 

Heaton  had  been  invisible  until  they  met  at 
the  door  of  the  dining-room.  As  Elinor  stepped 
forward  to  greet  him,  she  was  struck  by  the 
change  in  his  face. 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Mr.  Heaton?  "  she  asked, 
as  she  took  his  hand. 

9  129 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  111?  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  quickly.  "  What 
should  make  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  did  n't  look  quite  as  well  as 
when  I  saw  you  last,"  she  returned.  "  You  have 
probably  been  overworking,  instead  of  taking 
the  rest  you  promised  yourself.  What 's  the 
story?" 

"  I  am  afraid  my  last  story  would  n't  prove 
interesting  to  you.  It  has  been  taking  all  my 
time  lately  to  work  it  out,  and  now  it 's  not 
likely  to  be  a  pleasant  one  for  anybody." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  answered,  as  she 
seated  herself  in  her  usual  place  beside  him  at 
the  table.  "  Anyway,  you  have  done  your  last 
work  for  a  month  to  come.  We  are  all  going  to 
live  out  of  doors  here  and  be  lazy ;  are  n't  we, 
Bertha?  You  see  if  it  doesn't  carry  you  back 
to  the  old  days  at  Idlewilde,  Mr.  Heaton.  I 
have  several  messages  to  you  from  the  natives. 
Nobody  there  appears  to  regard  it  as  at  all 
strange  that  we  have  met.  They  look  at  New 
York  from  the  point  of  view  of  Idlewilde,  and 
Mrs.  Rose  is  quite  disappointed  that  I  don't 
know  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Smith,  who  lives  some- 
where near  Broadway." 

The  days  that  followed  were  far  too  short 
for  their  enjoyment.  Elinor  and  Wyckoff  were 
often  together,  for  Jack  had  taken  up  his  abode 
at  the  hotel,  on  the  day  after  her  coming  to  the 
cottage.  While  the  others  went  around  and 
130 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

around  the  lake  in  the  little  steamers,  they 
used  to  step  into  one  of  the  small  boats  at 
the  landing  and  row  away  across  the  water  to 
the  fishing  grounds  at  the  east  side  of  the  lake. 
Ned  was  usually  with  them.  He  preferred  the 
smaller  boat  and  the  chance  of  an  occasional 
fish,  and  he  took  infinite  satisfaction  in  the 
deferential  way  in  which  Elinor  consulted  his 
opinion  and  allowed  him  to  carry  her  sun 
umbrella. 

Then  there  were  the  merry  evenings  on  the 
piazza,  or  an  occasional  stroll  over  to  the  hotel 
to  call  on  their  new  friends.  Still  more  rarely 
there  was  a  long  rainy  day  when  they  remained 
housed,  idly  talking,  or  reading  aloud,  or  watch- 
ing the  flurries  of  wind  sweep  over  the  lake  and 
the  floating  clouds  rise  and  fall  over  Mount 
Kearsarge  and  the  more  distant  blue  peaks 
beyond. 

To  Heaton  alone  the  days  were  not  all 
pleasant.  He  kept  his  secret  well,  and  did  his 
best  to  appear  his  usual  self.  For  the  most 
part,  he  succeeded.  They  all  wondered  a  little 
at  the  occasional  irritability  from  which  he  had 
always  before  been  so  free ;  but  they  only  attri- 
buted it  to  his  sensitiveness  in  meeting  so  many 
strangers,  and  they  were  quick  to  pardon  it, 
though  without  a  thought  of  the  constant  strain 
to  which  he  was  subjecting  himself. 

He  was  only  human,  and  often,  in  spite  of  his 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

resolutions,  he  gave  himself  up  unreservedly  to 
the  delight  of  his  long  hours  with  Elinor.  She 
had  never  been  brighter  nor  more  agreeable 
than  during  those  days  at  the  cottage.  She 
was  more  considerate  of  him,  too,  for  down  in 
her  secret  heart  she  reproached  herself  for  the 
constant  contrast  she  was  mentally  making 
between  him  and  Wyckoff,  whose  never-failing 
activity  and  exuberant  spirits  rendered  him  a 
most  enjoyable  companion  for  her.  She  was 
unremitting  in  all  her  little  attentions  to  Heaton  ; 
but,  strange  to  say,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
intercourse  it  hurt  him  to  receive  these  atten- 
tions. They  only  seemed  to  him  to  emphazise 
the  gulf  between  them,  the  hopelessness  of  his 
hopes. 

Often,  when  he  was  left  alone,  he  went  back 
to  the  memory  of  that  other  lake  where  he  and 
Elinor  had  met,  three  years  before.  In  a  way 
they  were  repeating  their  old  experience,  in  this 
lazy  summer  life ;  yet  for  him  it  was  all  so 
changed.  At  Idlewilde  he  had  been  the  leader, 
the  one  to  take  the  initiative,  as  a  man  should 
do ;  here  he  could  only  follow  the  others. 
There  he  had  so  often  rowed  Elinor  back  and 
forth  across  the  lake ;  here  he  was  only  so  much 
useless  ballast,  and,  when  they  went  out  to- 
gether, it  was  Elinor  who  did  the  rowing.  The 
parallelism  quickly  ceased;  but  nevertheless  it 
was  there,  and  it  hurt  him. 
132 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Elinor  never  realized  the  envy  with  which 
Heaton  stood  by,  while  she  started  off  with  his 
cousin  for  their  daily  walk  or  row;  but  some- 
thing in  her  mood,  when  she  returned,  led  her 
to  devote  the  remaining  hours  of  the  day  to 
him.  It  was  not  that  she  was  entirely  unselfish 
in  the  matter,  either.  The  two  men  were  so 
perfectly  contrasted,  that,  after  an  hour  or  two 
of  Wyckoff's  quick,  flashing  talk,  there  was  a 
certain  restfulness  in  escaping  to  Heaton  once 
more.  With  Jack  she  was  merely  the  light, 
bright  summer  girl  with  scarcely  a  thought 
beyond  the  present  hour;  but  when  she  left  him 
for  Heaton,  life  became  more  earnest,  her  hopes 
and  purposes  stronger. 

Wyckoff's  week  had  gradually  lengthened  into 
two,  and  the  last  Saturday  evening  of  his  stay 
had  come.  It  had  been  a  stormy  day;  but 
towards  night  it  had  cleared,  and  he  had  walked 
over  to  the  cottage  in  company  with  a  pretty 
Miss  Whitney  who  had  met  Elinor,  a  few  years 
before,  and  who  had  lost  no  opportunity  of 
renewing  the  acquaintance. 

"  What  a  glorious  evening  !  "  Elinor  said,  as 
they  sat  on  the  broad  piazza  overlooking  the 
lake.  "  This  is  Mr.  Wyckoff's  last  available  night 
here, — we're  all  to  go  to  the  hotel,  to-morrow 
night,  —  so  why  not  go  out  for  one  last  row 
together?  You  can  take  Mr.  Heaton  and  me, 
Ned;  and  Mr.  Wyckoff  can  row  Bertha  and 
133 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Miss  Whitney,"  she  added,  with  a  naughty 
satisfaction  in  Jack's  energetic  demonstrations  of 
dissent. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  they  were  gliding  away 
across  the  lake.  It  was  not  in  vain  that  Wyckoff 
had  been  stroke  on  his  college  crew,  and  his  boat 
soon  shot  far  ahead  of  the  other  and  was  lost  in 
the  shadows  of  the  southern  shore.  Elinor  and 
Ned  rowed  lazily  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
lake ;  then  Elinor  dropped  her  oars. 

"  Let 's  lie  here  and  rock,  for  a  few  minutes," 
she  said.  "  The  others  don't  seem  to  be  socially 
inclined,  and  these  little  waves  in  the  moonlight 
are  too  pretty  to  leave.  Or  do  you  prefer  to 
keep  moving,  Mr.  Heaton?  " 

"  As  you  like,"  he  answered,  while  he  pocketed 
his  little  cloth  cap  and  folded  his  hands  at  the 
back  of  his  head. 

From  the  clear  sky  above  the  heights  of 
Mount  Eyrie,  the  moon  was  shining  directly 
down  upon  his  face,  upturned  as  if  he  could 
feel  its  radiance ;  and  his  expression  appeared 
to  have  caught  something  of  its  serenity.  For 
the  moment,  he  was  quite  content.  He  could 
feel  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  night  about  him ; 
he  could  hear  the  distant  cries  of  the  night  birds 
along  the  shore,  and  the  dreamy  plash  of  the 
water  as  it  lapped  the  sides  of  the  boat.  Ned, 
lounging  in  the  bow,  was  forgotten,  and  the  rest 
of  the  world  were  far  away.  Only  he  and 
'34 


EACH    LIFE  UNFULFILLED 

Elinor  were  there,  just  as  they  had  been  upon 
that  other  night.  Even  now  he  could  see  the 
low  hills  about  them,  the  rosy  glow  in  the  west. 
If  it  all  had  only  come  earlier,  when  he  had  the 
right  to  love  her,  and  to  tell  her  of  his  love ! 
No  matter  then  if  blindness  had  followed,  as 
long  as  she  was  already  his.  Now  the  insur- 
mountable barrier  had  risen  up  between  them. 
He  could  only  stand  aside  and  leave  her  with 
his  cousin. 

But  to-night  even  his  cousin  was  not  there ; 
just  they  two,  rocking  on  the  lake.  He  could 
feel  the  folds  of  her  skirt  as  they  fell  across  his 
foot ;  and  once,  when  she  bent  forward  to  dip 
her  fingers  in  the  cool  water,  the  wind  blew  a 
stray  lock  of  her  hair  across  his  fingers  as  they 
lay  on  the  edge  of  the  boat.  The  touch  seemed 
to  run  up  his  arm  in  little  pricking  lines,  and 
he  longed  just  once  to  lay  his  hand  on  her  soft, 
fluffy  hair.  But  he  clasped  his  hands  at  the 
back  of  his  head  once  more  and  turned  away, 
although  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  watching  him, 
startled  at  his  quick  change  of  position. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  tired,"  she  said.  "  I 
forgot  that  you  can't  enjoy  it  as  I  do." 

Involuntarily  he  bit  his  lip  and  gave  his  mus- 
tache a  little  impatient  jerk.  At  least,  there 
was  no  need  to  remind  him  of  the  fact.  If  he 
could  forget  and  be  so  contented,  why  could 
she  not  let  him  have  his  one  short  hour? 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Perhaps  I  may  enjoy  it  more  than  you 
know,"  he  said  curtly.  "  However,  don't  let 
me  keep  you,  if  you  are  anxious  to  get  back  to 
the  others  —  and  Jack,"  he  longed  to  add ;  but 
he  was  too  much  the  gentleman  for  that. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  this  tone  to 
her,  and  Elinor  was  more  hurt  than  she  cared 
to  admit.  She  merely  nodded  to  Ned,  and  took 
up  her  own  oars  again ;  but  she  scarcely  spoke 
while  they  were  rowing  back  to  the  shore.  At 
the  landing,  they  were  overtaken  by  the  other 
boat;  and,  as  they  stepped  up  on  the  little  pier, 
she  abruptly  walked  away  with  Jack  and  Miss 
Whitney,  leaving  the  others  to  follow  as  they 
would.  Later,  when  they  were  all  on  the  steps 
of  the  cottage,  saying  good  night,  there  was  a 
slight  additional  cordiality  in  her  manner  to  his 
cousin,  which  Heaton  was  quick  to  feel  as  an 
intentional  reproach  to  himself. 

The  next  evening,  according  to  their  promise, 
they  all  went  over  to  the  hotel.  For  an  hour  they 
sat  outside,  watching  the  twilight  darken  over 
the  lake.  Then  some  one  had  suggested  music, 
and  they  had  gone  to  the  parlor,  which  quickly 
filled  with  the  idlers  whom  the  fact  of  its  being 
Sunday  night  had  debarred  from  more  excit- 
ing pleasures.  There  were  a  few  feeble  choruses ; 
then,  after  the  capabilities  of  "  Coronation  "  and 
"  How  Can  I  Bear  to  Leave  Thee  "  had  been  ex- 
hausted, the  amateurs  had  preferred  to  lapse 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

into  silence,  and  Elinor  and  Wyckoffwere  left 
to  sing  some  of  Mendelssohn's  familiar  duets. 
During  the  past  few  weeks  they  had  often  sung 
together,  and  their  voices  Blended  well,  Jack's 
making  up  in  expression  for  Elinor's  greater 
power  and  brilliancy.  Each  time  they  paused, 
there  was  an  instant  demand  for  another  song; 
so  they  had  gone  on,  giving  one  old  favorite 
after  another,  as  they  were  called  for.  At  length 
Elinor  turned  and  looked  about  the  room. 

Little  by  little,  the  groups  scattered  around 
the  parlor  had  drawn  nearer  the  piano.  All  of 
them  were  watching  her,  eager  for  her  to  sing 
again,  while  her  eyes  moved  up  and  down  the 
room,  enjoying  her  first  little  triumph.  Wyckoff 
was  murmuring  half-mocking  compliments  in 
her  ear ;  but  she  turned  away  from  him,  and 
unconsciously  her  eyes  sought  his  cousin,  to 
see  if  he  were  aware  of  her  success.  At  first 
she  looked  for  him  in  vain ;  but  at  length  she 
saw  him  sitting  quite  aloae  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  which 
shaded  his  face.  Then  her  conscience  smote 
her,  for,  angry  at  his  tone  the  night  before,  she 
had  purposely  avoided  him,  all  that  day.  It 
was  plain  that  he  was  unhappy  now,  whether  or 
not  from  her  studied  neglect,  she  could  not  tell. 

"  Please  sing  just  once  more,  Miss  Tiemann," 
Wyckoff  was  urging  her.  "  Sing  alone  now, 
just  this  once." 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Her  voice  is  glorious,"  an  old  lady  from 
Boston  was  saying  behind  her  fan ;  "  and  her 
method  is  going  to  be  perfect.  I  can't  tell  what 
it  is ;  and  yet,  after  all,  her  singing  is  unsatis- 
factory. Down  underneath  it  all,  there  's  a  little 
coldness,  as  if  she  never  quite  read  the  com- 
'poser's  real  thought." 

Elinor  stood  hesitating  for  a  moment,  still 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  lonely  figure  far 
across  the  room.  She  had  never  been  more 
beautiful  than  she  was  then,  in  her  simple  white 
gown,  and  with  the  brilliant  flush  on  her  cheeks, 
the  dark  glow  of  excitement  in  her  eyes.  All  at 
once  she  turned  to  the  piano,  and,  with  a  whis- 
pered word,  to  Miss  Whitney,  took  her  place 
and  began  the  accompaniment  to  the  little  old 
"  Schlummerlied "  she  had  sung  at  Idlewilde, 
three  years  before. 

No  coldness  was  in  her  voice  now.  She  was 
singing  for  one  hearer  alone,  and  half  uncon- 
sciously asking  for  his  pardon.  There  was  a 
little  unsteady  note  in  her  voice  at  the  close ; 
then  came  a  hush,  followed  by  a  quick  murmur 
of  applause. 

Refusing  all  their  entreaties  to  sing  again,  she 
rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  Heaton's  side. 

"  I  have  sung  till  I  am  tired,"  she  said.  "  Won't 
you  please  take  me  out  on  the  piazza,  for  a  little 
air?" 

And  they  went  away  together. 
138 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

ONE  morning,  less  than  a  week  after  her  re- 
turn to  the  city,  Elinor  was  walking  up  Fifth 
Avenue.  She  had  been  down  town  for  her  first 
lesson  of  the  season,  and  Arturo  had  warmly 
welcomed  her  back  to  his  studio.  She  had 
lingered  a  little  after  her  lesson,  to  talk  over 
her  plans  for  the  coming  winter.  Then,  tempted 
by  the  clear,  breezy  morning,  she  had  resolved 
to  walk  up  town  again,  while  she  thought  over 
at  her  leisure  the  recent  conversation. 

It  had  needed  little  consideration  to  decide 
Elinor  to  return  to  New  York  for  at  least  one 
more  year  with  Signer  Arturo.  Her  year's  train- 
ing had  done  so  much  for  her  that  her  friends 
were  unanimous  in  their  advice  to  her  to  go  on 
with  her  study ;  and  she  was  more  than  ready  to 
be  influenced  by  their  opinion.  She  had  worked 
with  a  will,  and,  notwithstanding  Arturo's  lectures, 
he  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  pupil.  And 
Elinor,  in  spite  of  her  frequent  discouragements, 
felt  that  she  was  slowly  working  towards  the  reali- 
zation of  her  dreams. 

They  might  never  come  true ;  but,  as  time 
went  on,  her  hopes  were  not  limited  so  entirely 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

to  the  public  appearance  which  should  be  the 
grand  climax  of  her  career.  She  was  slowly 
learning  to  love  her  work  for  its  own  sake, 
not  for  the  personal  triumph  which  it  might 
one  day  bring  her.  It  was  as  Heaton  had 
predicted:  the  more  she  gained  this  unselfish 
interest  in  her  voice  and  her  art,  the  nearer 
she  was  coming  to  the  fulfilment  of  her  former 
hopes,  and  day  after  day  the  prospect  was 
brightening  before  her. 

She  had  not  seen  the  Emersons  since  the 
night  of  their  return.  The  past  few  days  had 
been  busy  ones  for  her,  and  she  knew  that  Mrs. 
Emerson  would  be  occupied  in  setting  the  wheels 
of  her  domestic  machinery  once  more  in  motion. 
Now  she  resolved  to  see  her  before  the  day  was 
over.  There  were  many  things  to  be  talked  over 
together.  After  a  month  of  daily  intercourse,  it 
is  hard  to  drop  back  all  at  once  into  the  occa- 
sional meetings  of  ordinary  friendship. 

If  Elinor  had  but  known  it,  the  last  thought  in- 
cluded Mrs.  Emerson's  brother  much  more  than 
it  did  Mrs.  Emerson  herself.  Far  more  than  she 
had  realized  it  at  the  time,  she  had  enjoyed  her 
close  companionship  with  Heaton,  and  she  found 
that  she  missed  him  to  a  most  unreasonable 
extent.  Day  after  day  throughout  that  long 
month,  he  had  been  at  hand  whenever  she 
wanted  him,  always  interested  and  sympathetic, 
whatever  her  mood  might  be,  and  never  obtrud- 
140 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ing  himself  at  the  wrong  time.  It  was  given  to 
few  women,  she  thought  to  herself,  to  have  such 
a  friend.  A  year  ago,  even,  she  would  have  said 
it  belonged  to  the  class  of  impossible  situations 
evolved  by  the  novelist.  It  was  a  great  gift,  this 
frank,  unreserved  friendship  of  a  broad-minded 
man,  and  she  was  glad  that  fate  had  thrown  it  in 
her  way.  The  thought  had  never  once  crossed 
her  mind  that,  to  the  man  himself,  this  friend- 
ship might  have  quite  another  signification. 
Heaton's  self-control,  during  those  trying  days 
at  the  lake,  had  been  all  that  he  had  desired ; 
in  the  girl's  eyes  they  were  friends,  simply 
friends  and  nothing  more. 

She  had  crossed  over  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and 
was  strolling  up  the  shady  side  of  the  street, 
opposite  the  wall  of  the  reservoir.  So  absorbed 
was  she  in  her  reverie  that  she  had  not  noticed 
the  carriage  which  drew  up  at  the  curbstone, 
and  she  started  violently  when  Mrs.  Emerson's 
voice  fell  upon  her  ears. 

"  Elinor !    And  is  it  thus  that  you  disdain  us  ?  " 

Laughing  and  blushing  at  her  own  absent- 
mindedness,  the  girl  came  forward  to  the 
carriage. 

"  Bertha,  how  you  startled  me  !  I  was  just 
pondering  upon  a  question  of  vast  importance : 
whether,  if  I  called  on  you,  this  afternoon,  you 
would  ask  me  to  stay  to  dinner.  I  Ve  the 
accumulated  events  of  a  week  to  talk  over  with 
141 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

your  brother,"  she  added  gayly,  as  she  leaned 
across  Mrs.  Emerson  to  take  Heaton's  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  We  '11  put  an  extra  bone  in  the  soup,  and 
hang  out  the  latchstring,"  he  answered,  with 
one  of  his  rare  sunny  smiles.  He  looked  tired, 
that  morning,  and  his  eyes  had  dark  shadows 
underneath  them,  like  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had 
been  passing  through  some  great  nervous  strain. 
However,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  pleasure  he 
felt  at  their  meeting,  and  Elinor  felt  an  answer- 
ing thrill  of  pleasure  as  she  watched  him. 

"Get  in  and  let  us  take  you  home,"  Mrs.  Emer- 
son suggested  hospitably.  "  We  are  going  within 
a  block  of  your  house,  so  it  will  be  no  trouble. 
I  Ve  an  engagement,  this  noon,  or  I  should  insist 
upon  your  going  back  to  lunch  with  us  now.  I 
had  to  bring  my  little  brother  home  from  his 
kindergarten,"  she  went  on,  as  Elinor  stepped 
into  the  carriage  and,  with  a  quick  motion, 
anticipated  Heaton,  who  was  rising  to  give  her 
his  seat  at  Mrs.  Emerson's  side. 

"  Don't  move,"  she  said  hastily.  "  Truly,  I  like 
this  place  better ;  I  can  talk  to  you  both  at  the 
same  time  if  I  sit  facing  you,  and  that  is  always 
an  object  to  me,  you  know.  But  what  about  the 
kindergarten  ?  Is  it  a  joke  ?  " 

The  life  died  out  of  Heaton's  face.  He  looked 
suddenly  older  and  graver  and  less  strong,  as  he 
answered,  — 

142 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  It 's  not  in  the  least  a  joke,  Miss  Tiemann. 
I  'm  trying  to  make  the  best  of  things,  as  you 
suggested,  last  June.  I  have  left  my  lofty  soli- 
tude, and  joined  the  ranks  of  the  professional 
'blind.  In  other  words,  I  have  gone  into  the 
school  for  the  blind,  over  here,  and  have  set 
to  work  to  study  Braille,  side  by  side  with  the 
babes  of  the  institution.  In  time  it  may  be  a 
benefit  to  me  ;  but  the  process  is  rather  painful." 

He  threw  out  the  last  words  defiantly ;  then 
he  sat  silent,  with  his  teeth  shut  hard  upon  his 
lower  lip,  which,  after  all,  was  not  quite  steady. 
The  past  two  hours  had  been  an  unexpectedly 
bitter  experience  for  him.  It  had  been  hard  for 
the  sensitive,  self-contained  man  to  leave  his 
sheltered  surroundings  and  feel  himself  one  of  a 
vast  class  of  afflicted  humanity  for  whom  institu- 
tions had  been  mercifully  provided.  His  nerves 
were  quivering,  and  he  felt  his  self-control  fast 
giving  way.  And  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  was  a 
relief  to  speak  of  it  to  Elinor.  He  had  an 
instinctive  feeling  that  she  would  understand. 

At  his  unexpected  change  of  tone,  the  girl 
experienced  a  slight  shock.  For  an  instant,  she 
hesitated  and  glanced  appealingly  at  his  sister 
who  did  not  meet  her  eyes,  but  sat  with  her  own 
fixed  on  the  old  gray  wall  of  the  reservoir. 
Between  friends,  the  most  eloquent  expression 
of  sympathy  is  often  given  without  a  spoken 
word,  but  Elinor  suddenly  realized  that  in  that 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

way  she  was  powerless  to  reach  the  man  before 
her.  Never  before  had  the  barrier  of  his  blind- 
ness seemed  to  rise  up  so  impenetrably  between 
them. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  hard  for  you,"  she 
said  at  last,  and  her  voice  was  very  gentle  and 
pitiful ;  "  but  I  had  no  idea  what  it  really  must 
be.  I  can  see  now,  and  I  wish  I  had  never 
spoken  of  it." 

"  It 's  better  that  you  did,"  he  answered, 
while  his  fingers  closed  nervously  on  the  knob 
of  her  parasol  beside  him.  "  It  will  be  a  good 
thing  for  me,  when  once  I  learn  their  writing,  for 
then  I  can  correct  my  own  work  and  save 
Bertha  all  but  the  copy.  It  will  be  a  relief  to  be 
more  independent,  and  to  be  able  to  go  back 
over  my  work  and  see  what  I  am  doing.  But 
this  is  only  my  first  day,  you  know  — "  He 
paused  abruptly. 

"  And  the  work  is  harder  than  you  thought  it 
would  be?"  Elinor  asked,  as  again  she  tried  to 
catch  Mrs.  Emerson's  eye.  From  the  first,  she 
had  found  it  hard  to  meet  the  glance  of  his 
sister,  whenever  Heaton  was  speaking  of  him- 
self. It  was  as  if  Mrs.  Emerson  felt  that  there 
was  a  certain  disloyalty  in  thus  taking  advantage 
of  his  blindness. 

"  It 's  not  the  work,"  he  said,  with  an  accent 
of  utter  dreariness  which  Elinor  had  never  heard 
from  him  before.  "  I  can  work  as  well  as  any  of 
144 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

them ;  but  I  've  been  alone  too  long.  Living,  as 
I  do,  in  the  midst  of  people  who  can  see  and 
who  have  some  notion  of  what  tact  means,  I 
regard  my  case  as  being  unique  and  myself  as 
being  almost  as  good  as  any  of  you.  And  then 
to  be  suddenly  dropped  into  a  roomful  of  just 
such  people,  to  know  that,  to  all  eternity,  you 
can't  see  them,  nor  they  you,  that  you  can't 
have  any  notion  of  each  other  except  by  the 
voice,  or  when  they  accidentally  joggle  against 
you  —  "  He  paused,  with  a  sudden  catch  in  his 
breath.  His  face  was  white  and  his  lips  were 
dry  and  rigid.  Then  his  grasp  on  the  knob 
beside  him  grew  tighter,  while  he  went  on 
slowly ;  "  I  think  I  am  beginning  to  see  what  it 
all  means.  Not  to  myself;  God  knows  I  found 
that  out,  several  months  ago ;  but  to  you  all.  I 
had  never  realized  till  to-day  how  I  must  seem  to 
you,  and  how  apart  from  you  my  life  must  be." 

The  next  moment,  he  felt  Elinor's  little 
gloved  hand  rest  on  his,  where  it  clutched  the 
porcelain  ball. 

"  Mr.  Heaton,"  she  said  steadily ;  "  if  your 
life  is  apart  from  ours,  it  is  only  because  the 
grandness  of  your  courage  has  put  you  on  a 
plane  we  can  never  reach.  We  can't  know  what 
it  is  to  be  blind  and  to  drop  out  of  active  life,  as 
you  have  done ;  but  at  least  we  can  know  what 
it  is  to  have  met  an  unselfish,  heroic  man,  and, 
for  my  part,  I  thank  you  for  the  lesson." 
10  MS 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Fearful  of  having  said  too  much,  she  broke 
off,  and  for  the  next  three  or  four  blocks,  no 
word  was  spoken.  It  was  Heaton  who  finally 
broke  the  silence.  In  quite  his  usual  tone,  he 
asked  about  Arturo  and  the  morning's  lesson, 
and  they  were  still  talking  about  matters  musical 
when  the  carriage  stopped  at  Elinor's  door. 

Late  the  same  afternoon,  Heaton  and  Elinor 
were  left  alone  for  a  few  moments  in  the  Emer- 
sons'  library.  All  at  once,  Heaton  recurred  to 
the  subject  of  the  morning's  talk. 

"  I  'm  not  always  such  a  coward,"  he  said 
briefly ;  "  but  the  hurt  was  fresh  at  the  time, 
and  I  wanted  to  make  a  public  demand  upon 
your  sympathy.  I'm  sorry  to  have  made  a 
scene ;  but  the  conditions  were  new,  and  I 
had  n't  adjusted  myself  to  them  yet.  There  are 
days  when  I  feel  as  if  the  darkness  must  break 
for  just  an  hour  or  two,  to  let  me  catch  my 
breath  and  pull  my  courage  together  once  more. 
I  shall  get  my  mental  balance  again  before 
long.  Till  then,  you  must  either  cut  my 
acquaintance,  or  be  patient  with  me." 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  his  hand  across  his 
face,  while  his  mouth,  under  his  little  brown 
mustache,  worked  nervously.  He  was  silent  for 
a  moment ;  then  he  broke  out  again,  — 

"  Really,  Miss  Tiemann,  I  'm  not  as  much  of  a 
coward  as  I  seem.  You  don't  know  what  it  is. 
Nobody  does,  who  has  never  been  blind.  When 
146 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  oculist  told  me  I  was  going  blind,  I  sup- 
posed I  understood  what  he  meant,  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  species  of  perpetual  night.  It 
isn't  that  at  all.  I  used  to  lie  awake,  nights, 
and  think  about  it,  and  watch  the  grayish  out- 
lines of  the  windows,  and  I  fancied  I  knew  all 
about  it.  Then,  one  day,  without  any  warning 
at  all,  I  found  that  I  knew  absolutely  nothing. 
It  presses  in  on  me  so,  and  chokes  me,  and 
weighs  me  down.  And  then  the  hardest  thing 
of  all  has  been  to  get  used  to  the  endlessness  of 
it.  Even  now  there  are  times  when  I  feel  as  if 
it  could  n't  last,  and  I  begin  to  plan  what  I  will 
do  when  I  can  see  again.  But  that  doesn't 
stay  long,  and  the  blackness  settles  down  tight 
around  me  till  I  can  hardly  breathe,  and  I  feel  as 
if  I  must  either  shriek,  or  go  mad.  Do  you 
wonder  I  'm  half  afraid,  and  want  to  hold  on  to 
somebody?  It  isn't  enough  to  hear;  I  must 
touch  people,  to  make  sure  I  'm  not  all  alone  in 
the  dark." 

He  had  been  pacing  the  floor  restlessly ;  but 
now  he  came  forward  to  the  fire  and  groped 
about  for  his  usual  seat,  which  had  been  pushed 
away  to  the  farther  side  of  the  room.  Elinor 
felt  that  she  could  bear  no  more.  All  his  proud 
self-control  and  courage  appeared  to  have 
broken  down,  and  it  was  as  if,  for  the  hour,  he 
were  making  an  open  avowal  of  his  weakness. 
As  he  stood  there  in  the  gathering  dusk  and 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

shut  within  his  own  greater  darkness,  her 
thoughts  flashed  back  to  that  other  Heaton  she 
had  known  in  the  old  days.  Only  three  years 
had  passed ;  but  now  it  was  all  so  changed. 

Rising,  she  crossed  the  room  and  brought  his 
chair  forward  to  the  fire. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said.    "  It  was  moved  away." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  touched  it,  and 
slowly  seated  himself.  There  was  no  gratitude 
in  his  face,  nothing  but  infinite  sadness,  as  he 
asked,  — 

"  Miss  Tiemann,  do  you  ever  remember 
Idlewilde?" 

"  Don't,"  she  said  brokenly.  "  Perhaps  it 
will  be  easier  in  time." 


148 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

"  I  HAD  a  perfect  orgy  with  Arturo,  to-day," 
Elinor  said,  as  she  bent  over  the  fire  to  pick  up 
a  burning  brand  fallen  on  the  tiles. 

Heaton  laughed. 

"  The  old  story.  What  was  it,  this  time  ?  Or 
was  it  sacred  to  the  deities  of  music,  and  not  to 
be  repeated  to  profane  ears?" 

"  It  was  profane,  if  that 's  what  you  mean," 
she  retorted.  "  I  can't  imagine  how  a  man  who 
knows  so  little  English  has  ever  contrived  to 
gain  such  perfect  command  of  our  expletives. 
His  praise  is  slow  and  halting ;  but  he  swears 
fluently.  This  time,  I  brought  it  upon  myself. 
I  had  ventured  to  apply  for  admission  to  the 
Oratorio  Society  without  asking  his  consent." 

"The  Oratorio  Society?"  said  Mrs.  Emerson. 
"  Jack  is  in  it  again,  this  year ;  is  n't  he,  Tom?  " 

"  He  is  one  of  the  shining  lights  among  their 
tenors,"  her  brother  responded. 

Elinor  looked  slightly  annoyed. 

"  I  did  n't  know  that,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  .he  has  sung  there  for  years,  and  he 
talks  as  if  the  fate  of  the  whole  musical  world 
were  hanging  upon  the  performances  of  that 
149 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

one  organization.  Every  year,  he  threatens  to 
get  out  of  it,  and  every  year  finds  him  firm  at 
his  post.  But  what  was  Arturo's  objection  to 
your  going  into  it?" 

"  '  Because  it  will  serve  to  make  your  voice  so 
very  promiscuous,'  "  returned  Elinor,  dropping 
into  her  teacher's  voice  and  manner.  "  I  can't 
find  that  it .  is  likely  to  do  me  any  other  harm. 
I  have  been  so  anxious  to  study  one  of  the 
great  oratorios,  and  as  long  as  I  am  not  likely 
to  be  asked  to  pose  as  soloist,  my  solitary 
chance  lies  in  turning  promiscuous  and  joining 
the  ranks.  I  have  only  rehearsed  with  them 
once ;  but  it  was  much  finer  than  I  had 
supposed." 

"  And  did  you  feel  properly  promiscuous  ? " 
Heaton  asked  teasingly. 

"  I  most  certainly  did.  They  have  put  me 
on  the  end  of  the  sopranos,  and  that  leaves  me 
sandwiched  in  between  an  Irish  lady  in  a  pink 
silk  waist,  and  a  lean  little  tenor  who  can't  go 
above  F  sharp.  He  stops  and  coughs  behind 
his  hand,  every  time  the  others  soar  above  him. 
I  suppose  it  is  intended  as  an  apology  to  me 
for  his  flatting ;  but  he  might  allow  once  telling 
me  to  answer  for  every  time.  There 's  not  a 
single  person  in  sight  whom  I  ever  saw  before, 
and  I  am  forlorn  as  can  be  during  the  intermis- 
sion ;  but  when  the  music  starts  up  again,  I  am 
content." 

150 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I  will  tell  Jack  to  hunt  you  up,"  Mrs.  Emer- 
son said.  "  What  about  the  Saturday  Club  ? 
You  know  you  promised  to  sing  for  us,  this  fall." 

"  If  you  dare  trust  me,"  she  replied,  laughing. 
"  I  am  getting  to  doubt  my  ability  to  do  any- 
thing but  chirp  a  little.  Arturo  does  n't  increase 
one's  courage,  and  I  may  break  down,  at  the 
last  moment." 

"  Arturo  is  a  beast,"  Heaton  observed. 

"  No ;  he  's  not,"  Elinor  answered  quickly. 
"  I  am  giving  you  an  absolutely  wrong  impres- 
sion of  him.  He  is  glorious,  simply  glorious ; 
and  it  is  an  inspiration  to  work  with  such  a  man. 
Even  if  I  never  amount  to  anything,  I  shall 
always  be  glad  I  came  to  him,  for  he  makes 
music  so  much  broader  and  deeper  than  other 
men.  I  used  to  suppose  i4:  was  something  to 
play  with ;  now  I  believe  it  is  something  to  live 
for." 

Heaton's  face  lighted. 

"You'll  get  there,  Miss  Tiemann,  if  you 
keep  on.  It 's  the  working  for  something,  after 
all,  that  counts  for  more  than  the  something 
attained." 

But  Elinor  had  digressed  again.  It  was 
characteristic  of  her  to  speak  seriously  for  only 
a  moment  at  a  time,  and  then  to  drop  back  into 
a  lighter  mood. 

"  He  is  a  tyrant,  though,"  she  remarked 
thoughtfully ;  "a  tyrant  of  the  worst  kind.  I 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

have  learned  to  obey  him  in  all  things,  to  avoid 
Huyler,  and  overshoes,  and  light  songs,  to  keep 
my  tongue  under  strict  control,  and  to  sound 
my  final  consonants ;  but,  alas !  I  have  n't 
learned  not  to  sing  off  the  key  occasionally, 
when  my  feelings  are  too  many  for  me.  He 
says  it  is  a  crying  shame,  and,  do  you  know,  he 
hasn't  the  least  suspicion  that  therein  lurks  a 
pun.  He  worships  key,  anyway.  I  believe  he 
keeps  one  hanging  in  his  room,  to  pray  to,  o' 
nights;  and  his  whole  future  happiness  would 
be  lost  to  him,  if  his  golden  harp  should  happen 
to  be  a  little  flat  on  one  of  the  strings.  Your 
absolutely  accurate  people  are  always  a  trifle 
disagreeable,  anyway." 

"  What  a  heretic  you  are ! "  Heaton  said, 
laughing  at  her  sudden  outburst. 

There  was  something  whimsical  about  her 
conversation  which  suited  his  mood.  She  had 
a  fashion  of  talking  on  the  surface  of  things, 
with  an  undercurrent  of  deeper  meaning,  now 
lending  an  air  of  mock  solemnity  to  matters  of 
trivial  import,  now  talking  the  random  nonsense 
of  a  little  child.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  dropped 
all  these  freaks  and  spoke  with  the  sincerity  of 
an  earnest  woman.  From  the  first  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, Heaton  had  enjoyed  her  conversa- 
tion, and  had  delighted  in  drawing  her  on  to  a 
free  expression  of  her  opinions,  which  were 
always  original  and  always  daring. 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I  'm  not  heretical,"  she  said  defensively. 
"  But  once  in  a  while  I  feel  as  if  I  were  hemmed 
in  by  rules  and  regulations,  and  then  I  rebel.  I 
want  to  sing  De  Koven,  and  to  flat,  too,  if  I  feel 
like  it.  It  is  hard  to  live  up  to  yourself,  every 
day,  just  as  it  would  be  hard  to  stand  on  tiptoe 
forever.  Now  and  then,  I  want  to  drop  back 
to  the  firmer  foothold  of  my  natural  depravity. 
When  I  do  drop  back,  I  hate  it ;  but  it  is  just  as 
attractive  to  look  down  upon.  I  wonder  if  self- 
made  people  don't  want  to  go  back  to  their 
original  level  sometimes." 

"  I  think  I  don't  like  self-made  people," 
Heaton  remarked  reflectively. 

"Why  not?  I  think  they  are  magnificent," 
she  flashed  hotly.  "  That  is  the  old  chasm 
between  the  West  and  the  East,  and  we  shall 
never  agree." 

"  I  admire  them,  too,  theoretically,"  he  re- 
turned ;  "  but,  for  practical  acquaintance,  I  pre- 
fer the  born-so  type.  The  new  ones  are  always 
in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  get  themselves  into 
shape  before  they  die.  They  can't  spend  time, 
poor  things,  to  get  all  their  corners  rubbed 
down ;  while  the  others  have  been  being 
polished  for  ever  and  ever  so  many  generations. 
You  will  feel  it,  even  in  singing.  Other  things 
being  equal,  here  in  America  you  will  find  that 
an  Alden  or  an  Endicott  will  sing  better  than 
an  O'Flarity." 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  it,"  she  answered 
thoughtfully.  "But  you  can  test  your  theory, 
if  I  sing  for  the  Saturday  Club.  I  believe  Miss 
Roach  is  to  sing,  too,  and  she  certainly  is 
virgin  soil,  so  far  as  her  ancestors  are  con- 
cerned. Arturo  claims  to  have  discovered  her 
when  she  was  selling  flowers  on  one  of  the 
ferries." 

Already  their  life  at  the  lake  had  faded  from 
a  present  interest  to  a  past  memory,  and  they 
were  settling  down  to  their  regular  occupations 
of  the  winter.  To  Heaton  it  seemed  strange  to 
be  in  harness  again.  Both  at  home  and  at  the 
school,  he  was  working  hard  at  his  Braille,  and 
the  pain  he  had  felt  at  the  start  was  slowly 
yielding  to  his  pleasure  in  once  more  mastering 
a  difficult  task.  It  had  been  real  enough  at 
first,  the  shock  of  mingling  with  those  other 
blind  people  from  whom  he  was  so  isolated,  and 
there  were  hours  when  the  sense  of  their  near- 
ness made  him  long  to  rush  away  from  them 
and  forget  them.  Their  ways  annoyed  him 
strangely.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were  trying  to 
impress  upon  him  that  he  was  just  like  all  the 
rest  of  them,  one  of  a  class  to  be  rated  with 
drunken  men  and  paupers  in  the  census  reports. 
He  established  relations  with  none  of  them, 
but  went  his  way,  reserved  and  alone.  Since 
his  one  outburst,  on  that  first  day,  he  had  said 
little  of  his  work;  but  he  had  toiled  at  it  un- 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ceasingly,  bringing  to  it  all  the  vigor  of  a  well- 
disciplined  mind,  until  little  by  little  he  gained 
skill  in  this  new  study  which  was  destined  one 
day  to  be  so  useful  to  him. 

He  had  never  understood  his  outbreak  to 
Elinor,  that  day.  Neither  did  he  altogether 
regret  it.  He  had  borne  his  fate  in  silence  for 
so  long  that  there  was  a  certain  relief  in  this 
sudden  outcry  for  pity.  If  she  had  met  him  in 
any  other  way,  the  memory  would  have  been 
galling  to  him  now;  but  her  sympathy  had 
been  quick  and  generous,  and  it  had  left  no 
scar  upon  his  self-respect.  In  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  his  suffering,  he  had  called  upon  her 
womanhood  for  help,  and  it  had  answered  to 
his  call. 

Since  they  had  returned  to  the  city,  Elinor 
had  been  a  much  less  frequent  guest  at  the  Em- 
ersons'.  It  was  not  that  she  was  less  intimate 
with  them ;  but,  spurred  on  by  a  rare  word  of 
approval  from  Arturo,  she  was  practising  more 
diligently  than  ever.  To-day,  however,  drop- 
ping in  for  a  cup  of  tea,  she  had  found  Mrs. 
Emerson  and  her  brother  sitting  alone  by  the 
library  fire. 

"  Our  friends  have  all  deserted  us,  to-day," 
Mrs.  Emerson  said,  as  she  took  forcible  posses- 
sion of  Elinor's  jacket ;  "  and  you  are  surely 
going  to  stay  here  to  dine  with  us.  Jack  is 
coming,  toe,  and  we  shall  be  as  cosy  as  can  be. 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

You  must  stay  to  wake  us  up,  for  we  are  de- 
plorably dull,  now  that  Ned  has  gone  back  to 
school  again." 

Heaton  had  been  in  one  of  his  old  gay  moods. 
They  came  more  rarely  than  ever,  since  his 
return  to  the  city ;  but,  on  this  particular  after- 
noon, he  had  been  in  unwonted  spirits.  Wyck- 
off,  when  he  appeared  at  dinner  time,  found 
them  in  a  state  of  wild  hilarity. 

"  Miss  Tiemann  and  Tom  have  been  talking 
over  old  times,"  Mrs.  Emerson  explained,  as 
she  rose  to  meet  her  cousin.  "  I  have  been 
absolutely  appalled  at  their  confessions.  Tom 
admits  to  countless  sins,  and  even  Miss  Tie- 
mann is  trying  to  make  him  remember  her  say- 
ing 'By  Jiminy,'  one  night,  when  she  tumbled 
out  of  a  wagon." 

"  Don't  think  it  is  my  usual  form  of  speech, 
Mr.  Wyckoff,"  Elinor  interposed,  as  he  seated 
himself  at  her  side.  "  I  caught  it  from  a 
naughty  little  cousin,  and  I  only  use  it  under 
stress  of  circumstances,  —  such  as  going  for  the 
doctor  in  the  dead  of  night,"  she  added,  with  a 
merry  sidelong  glance  at  Heaton. 

It  was  always  hard  for  her  to  realize  that  he 
was  shut  out  from  such  byplay  as  this,  and  she 
never  failed  to  receive  a  little  shock,  when  she 
met  his  quiet,  unresponsive  gaze. 

"  I  shall  always  feel  defrauded  over  losing 
that  week,"  Wyckoff  answered.  "  I  Ve  an  idea 
156 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

that  Tom  was  far-seeing  when  he  proposed  my 
going  away." 

"  It  was  a  good  thing  you  did,"  Elinor  replied 
audaciously,  "  You  would  have  been  entirely 
too  worldly  a  figure,  and  you  never  would  have 
harmonized  with  your  environment.  Mr.  Hea- 
ton  and  I  were  as  innocently  rustic  as  a  pair  of 
babes  in  the  wood,  and  even  my  decorous  little 
aunt  unbends,  when  she  is  in  the  wilderness  ;  but  I 
am  convinced  that  you  could  never  have  been 
one  of  us,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Kurzenbeine's  good 
opinion  of  you." 

"  Kurzenbeine?     I'd  forgotten  him." 

"  Another  proof  of  what  I  was  saying.  I  saw 
him,  last  summer,  and  he  was  still  chanting 
your  praises." 

"I  remember  him  now;  he  was  that  tall, 
yellow-headed  German  of  a  literal  turn  of  mind. 
I  told  him,  one  night,  that  my  ancestors  were 
all  Russian  Jews.  He  believed  me  implicitly, 
in  spite  of  Tom's  attempts  to  re-establish  his 
belief  in  the  respectable  roots  of  our  family 
tree." 

Since  they  had  come  back  to  the  city,  Wyck- 
off  had  not  allowed  his  friendship  with  Elinor 
to  die  out.  From  time  to  time,  he  had  met  her 
at  the  Emersons',  and  he  had  called  upon  her 
frequently.  By  this  time  there  had  grown  up 
between  them  a  free-and-easy  good-fellowship ; 
and  now,  as  they  left  the  dinner  table,  he  had 
157 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

followed  Elinor  back  to  the  library,  where  they 
had  fallen  into  a  long  discussion  of  Arturo,  the 
Oratorio  Society,  and  the  dozen  and  one  in- 
terests which  they  had  in  common. 

Heaton  sat  by  in  silence.  Envious  as  he- 
might  be  of  their  common  interests  from  which 
he  was  excluded,  there  was  never  any  bitterness 
in  his  mind,  so  far  as  his  cousin  was  concerned. 
In  the  time  of  his  greatest  need  it  had  been 
Jack  who  had  come  to  his  aid  and  helped  him 
through  one  of  the  hardest  experiences  of  his 
life.  If  someone  else  must  come  in  between 
himself  and  Elinor  and  monopolize  her  for  an 
hour,  he  could  most  willingly  give  place  to  his 
cousin.  Jack  had  earned  the  right  to  his  good 
times.  However,  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  isola- 
tion to  sit  and  listen  to  their  talk  of  people  and 
places  of  which  he  was  ignorant. 

At  length  Elinor  looked  up  and  saw  him. 
He  was  sitting  alone  at  the  other  side  of  the 
broad  hearth,  moodily  twisting  his  mustache 
and  frowning  at  the  fire.  .  Already  he  was  be- 
ginning to  show  the  effects  of  the  strain  under 
which  he  had  been  living  for  the  past  three  or 
four  months.  He  was  thinner  than  of  old  ;  new 
lines  had  come  into  his  face,  and  his  hair  had 
grown  gray  about  the  temples ;  but  his  expres- 
sion had  become  more  strong  and  manly,  and 
the  quiet  dignity  which  she  had  known  at  Idle- 
wilde,  the  dignity  of  ripening  manhood,  had 
'58 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

changed    into    that    greater   dignity   of  sorrow 
borne    in    courageous    silence. 

"  There  are  times,"  Wyckoff  said  to  Mrs. 
Emerson,  one  day,  with  the  sudden  light  in 
his  blue  eyes  which  came  only  when  he  was 
deeply  moved ;  "  there  are  times  when  I  feel 
like  taking  off  my  hat  before  Tom.  He  does  n't 
live  like  the  rest  of  us,  somehow,  and  we  can 
only  stand  and  watch  him,  and  keep  still." 

With  some  trivial  excuse,  Elinor  rose,  leaving 
Wyckoff  alone,  and  crossed  to  Heaton's  side. 

"  I  have  just  been  reading  over  the  story  you 
wrote,  last  summer,"  she  said,  as  she  took  the 
chair  at  his  side ;  "  the  one  you  let  me  read 
when  we  were  at  the  lake,  you  know.  What 
ever  put  it  into  your  head  ? " 

"Why?  "  he  asked,  turning  slowly  to  face  her. 

"  It  is  so  different  from  the  others,  so  full  of  fun 
and  ridiculous  situations.  I  kept  wishing,  while 
I  was  reading  it,  that  I  could  have  looked  in  on 
you  when  you  wrote  it.  You  must  have  had  ever 
so  much  fun  out  of  it,  all  alone  by  yourself." 

Heaton's  face  had  grown  very  white. 

"  I  don't  remember  enjoying  myself  so  very 
much,  when  I  wrote  it,"  he  said  dryly.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  will  have  to  excuse  me,  Miss  Tie- 
mann.  I  promised  Edwin  I  would  be  in  the 
smoking-room,  to-night.  Charlie  Bennett  was 
coming  over,  for  an  hour."  And  he  rose  and 
went  away  out  of  the  room. 
'59 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

WHAT  a  blessing  it  is  that  our  minds  are  not 
self-registering  machines,  like  a  phonograph ! 
There  is  not  one  of  us  who  would  not  be  rather 
appalled,  if  suddenly  confronted  with  a  full  and 
exact  transcription  of  his  thoughts,  during  any 
given  period.  Fortunate  it  is  for  us  that,  although 
the  imprint  of  our  thoughts  is  left  upon  us,  yet 
our  mortal  eyes  can  only  see  the  page  as  a 
whole,  without  being  able  to  make  out  the 
separate  type. 

The  last  two  or  three  months  had  marked  the 
beginning  of  a  new  era  in  Heaton's  life.  Up  to 
this  time,  he  had  entered  closely  into  the  home 
life  about  him.  His  writing  had  taken  but  a 
small  part  of  his  time,  and  he  had  spent  his 
leisure  moments  with  his  sister.  Now,  although 
of  late  he  had  lost  interest  in  his  work,  he  pre- 
ferred to  pass  most  of  his  hours  in  his  own 
room. 

There  was  little  variety  in  his  employment 
there,  only  the  going  over  and  over  again  the 
question  of  his  love  for  Elinor,  now  making  all 
sorts  of  excuses  to  justify  himself  in  telling  her 
the  whole  story  and  begging  her  to  be  his  wife, 
1 60 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

if  only  for  the  sake  of  the  luxurious  life  he  could 
afford  to  give  her ;  now  planning  how  he  could 
secretly  work  to  win  her  love,  to  enter  into  her 
life  and  interests  so  closely  that  she  would  some 
day  waken  to  the  knowledge  that,  without  him 
at  her  side,  her  own  life  would  be  incomplete ; 
then  spurning  the  whole,  as  unworthy  of  his 
manhood,  only  to  begin  again,  the  next  moment, 
and  go  on  hoping  and  planning  and  dreaming, 
until  he  was  called  away  and  forced  into  an 
active  interest  outside  of  himself. 

Again  and  again  he  resolved  to  be  a  man,  to 
forget  all  but  his  pleasant  friendship  with  Elinor 
and  to  enjoy  that,  without  a  though^  of  anything 
beyond.  The  next  day,  the  old  questions  would 
come  uppermost,  and  the  If — If — Ifs  would 
rush  through  his  brain  in  never-ending  circles. 
If  he  had  been  a  man  in  active  life,  he  would 
have  been  despicable ;  but  now,  shut  in  and 
limited  as  he  was,  he  was  more  to  be  pitied. 
He  despised  himself  most  acutely  at  times,  how- 
ever. It  was  so  beneath  all  his  ideals  of  what  a 
man  should  feel  and  think.  He  only  gained  a 
partial  respect  for  himself  when  he  remembered 
that,  in  spite  of  all  his  temptations,  he  had 
never  yet  betrayed  his  love.  He  hoped  that 
the  secret  might  always  remain  his  own ;  but  he 
was  proving  so  much  weaker  than  he  had  sup- 
posed himself  to  be,  that  he  felt  it  was  impos- 
sible to  trust  himself  beyond  the  present  hour. 
"  161 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Between  his  days  of  moody  dreaming  and  his 
hours  of  careful  self-restraint  when  he  was  with 
Elinor,  his  temper  began  to  suffer.  He  was  no 
longer  as  quiet  and  even  as  before ;  but  often 
his  overstrained  nerves  sought  relief  in  cold 
disregard,  or  in  an  occasional  cutting  word.  It 
left  her  surprised  and  hurt,  though  she  showed 
a  quick  generosity  in  her  forgiveness.  Worst  of 
all,  he  himself  realized  that  he  was  losing  his 
mental  perspective,  that  he  took  himself  too 
much  in  earnest,  and  magnified  trifles  until  they 
assumed  colossal  proportions.  It  would  have 
been  a  relief  if  he  could  have  seen  the  ridiculous 
side  of  the  situation.  He  vaguely  felt  that  it  was 
there ;  but  he  was  unable  to  grasp  it. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Elinor  was  to  sing 
before  the  Saturday  Club,  that  season,  and  the 
promised  event  came  off,  one  night  in  November. 
The  members  of  the  club  had  been  allowed  to 
invite  freely  for  the  musicale,  and  the  Emersons' 
large  house  was  filled  to  overflowing.  To  Elinor, 
sitting  up-stairs  and  listening  to  the  hum  of 
voices  below,  it  promised  to  be  something  of  an 
ordeal.  By  a  tacit  consent,  she  had  been  recog- 
nized as  the  star  of  the  evening,  and  this  was 
her  first  introduction  to  a  New  York  audience. 
Strange  to  say,  Arturo  had  favored  her  singing, 
and,  for  several  lessons,  he  had  been  training 
her  carefully  upon  the  work  he  had  chosen  for 
her. 

162 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"We  shall  see  what  you  can  do,  signorina," 
he  said,  one  day.  "  I  have  hopes  of  you,  great 
hopes,  for  you  have  the  voice  and  you  shall  have 
the  method.  That  I  shall  give  you.  But  you 
must  enter  into  the  work  con  amore,  con  amore 
which  means  with  love.  As  yet  you  do  not 
seem  to  have  the  soul  under  beneath  your  sing- 
ing which  shall  make  all  right.  You  can  sing 
now  to  be  applauded;  but  you  must  sing  to 
make  the  tears  fall  in  a  storm.  A  singer  must 
feel  it  here,  in  the  heart,  signorina ;  she  is  never 
made  from  the  head.  Now  when  you  begin  to 
sing  this  aria,  you  must  believe  that  you  are  in 
heaven,  and  all  the  people  around  you  are 
angels." 

Elinor  herself  felt  that  this  was  her  first  great 
opportunity,  and  she  longed  to  succeed,  if  only 
to  justify  Arturo  in  the  encouragement  he  had 
given  her.  But  as  she  sat  there  alone,  listening 
to  the  murmur  from  below,  realizing  that  all 
those  strange  people  were  there  to  hear  her 
and  to  pass  judgment  upon  her,  her  courage 
suddenly  failed.  Many  of  her  audience  had 
heard  the  world's  best  singers.  What  right  had 
she  to  come  before  them?  She  rose  and  began 
to  pace  the  room  hastily. 

Heaton's  den  had  been  set  aside  for  her  use, 

that  night.     It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been 

there,  and  she  found  a  partial  distraction  for  her 

thoughts  in  looking  about  her.     The  room  had 

163 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

been  fitted  up  for  him,  long  ago,  and  for  years 
it  had  remained  unchanged.  The  mantel  was 
covered  with  a  collection  of  photographs  of 
women  in  the  dress  of  four  or  five  years  before. 
Among  them,  she  recognized  many  of  the 
women  whom  she  had  met  at  the  Emersons', 
women  who  now  rarely  spoke  to  the  man  whom 
once  they  had  known  so  well.  In  one  corner 
was  a  group  of  sketches  of  Idlewilde,  arranged 
about  a  central  drawing  of  herself.  She  gave 
a  little  smile  of  gratified  vanity,  as  she  saw,  from 
the  initials  in  the  corners  of  the  sketches,  that 
they  were  the  work  of  Wyckoff.  She  remem- 
bered the  gown  so  well ;  it  was  the  one  she 
had  worn,  the  day  she  and  Heaton  had  first 
met. 

Across  the  room  was  the  orderly  writing- 
table,  and  beside  it,  on  a  little  stand,  was  a  pile 
of  books.  She  took  them  up  to  glance  at  their 
titles.  Most  of  them  bore  the  imprint  of  the 
year  of  his  blindness ;  but,  half-way  down  the 
pile,  she  came  upon  one  that  called  forth  a  little 
exclamation  of  surprise.  It  was  a  shabby  paper- 
covered  novel,  with  her  name  written  across 
the  outside.  At  a  loss  to  recognize  it  and 
to  account  for  its  being  there,  she  picked  it  up 
and  opened  it.  On  the  flyleaf  were  a  few  lines, 
written  carelessly  in  pencil,  rubbed  and  blurred 
with  time.  She  knew  the  writing  by  instinct, 
although  she  had  rarely  seen  it  before. 
164 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  On  the  window  pelted  the  raindrops, 

The  storm  was  raging  outside  ; 
Into  the  cottage  for  shelter 

From  our  path  we  turned  us  aside. 
And  there,  by  the  homely  window, 

Sat  an  aged,  wrinkled  dame, 
While  above  the  hum  of  her  spindle 

We  heard  her  dull  refrain, — 
'  'S  ist  A  Ues  zu  ktirz,  zu  kurz  ! ' 

"  Out  into  the  burning  sunshine 

We  took  our  careless  way  ; 
Naught  heeded  we  of  her  murmur, 

Life  was  so  fair,  that  day. 
But  now  that  the  dream  has  faded 

And  the  hours  have  flown  away, 
Swinging  alone  in  my  hammock, 

I  echo  the  old  dame's  lay, 
« 'S  ist  A  lies  zu  kurz,  zu  kurz  / '  " 


A  step  was  heard  outside,  and  Heaton's  voice 
asked,  — 

"May  I  come  in?" 

She  whirled  around  suddenly.  Her  face  had 
lighted,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  with  pleasure. 

"  Did  you  really  write  this,  Mr.  Heaton  ?  "  she 
asked,  holding  up  the  book. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  said,  as  he  crossed 
the  room  to  her  side.  On  the  way,  he  collided 
with  a  chair  which  she  had  pushed  from  its 
usual  place ;  but,  for  the  moment,  she  was  too 
eager  to  heed  it. 

"  '  'S  ist  Alles  zu  kurz]  "  she  quoted.  "  And 
165 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

you  told  me  once  that  you  had  never  written  a 
line  of  poetry." 

It  seemed  to  Heaton  that  his  secret  had  been 
shouted  from  the  housetops.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  the  crude  lines,  hastily  written  so  long 
ago ;  but,  word  for  word,  they  came  back  to 
him  now  with  startling  distinctness.  What  would 
she  think  of  him?  He  felt  a  sudden  resentment 
towards  the  girl,  who  had  ventured  to  pry  into 
his  papers,  to  ferret  out  the  secrets  of  his  private 
life.  He  turned  upon  her  one  look  of  scorn.  It 
was  his  only  way  to  recover  his  lost  ground,  to 
bury  again  what  she  had  brought  to  light. 

"  It  could  hardly  be  called  poetry,"  he  said 
coldly.  "  It 's  only  the  merest  doggerel.  Be- 
sides, I  really  can't  see  how  you  chanced  to  find 
it." 

His  accent  was  cutting,  and  the  quick  tears 
sprang  into  Elinor's  eyes.  His  rebuke  had 
touched  her  keenly,  but  she  was  too  proud  to 
seek  to  justify  herself.  She  turned  and  silently 
put  the  book  into  his  hand. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
had  no  idea  of  finding  it  here." 

Impatiently  he  tossed  the  book  down  on  the 
writing-table. 

"  It 's  of  no  consequence,  anyway,"  he  said 
indifferently.  "  You  are  welcome  to  it,  if  you 
wish." 

"  Elinor,  dear,"  Mrs.  Emerson  said  from  the 
166 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

doorway;  "the  next  number  is  yours,  so  per- 
haps you  'd  better  come  down." 

Forcing  back  her  tears,  the  girl  slowly  turned 
away  and  crossed  the  room. 

"  I  '11  do  my  best,  Bertha,"  she  said  drearily. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  sha'  n't  succeed  well  in  my 
debut;  but  you  must  be  merciful." 

A  moment  later,  she  came  forward  on  the 
little  stage  which  had  been  built  out  at  the  side 
of  the  room.  Her  face  was  white  and  still,  and, 
of  a  sudden,  dark  lines  had  settled  about  her 
eyes.  She  looked  tired  and  discouraged,  not  at 
all  like  her  usual  bright,  careless  self. 

During  the  short  introduction,  she  glanced 
about  the  room.  It  was  crowded  with  people, 
many  of  them  strangers;  but  she  could  not 
seem  to  separate  the  faces.  Here  and  there  she 
caught  the  flash  of  diamonds,  or  the  shimmer  of 
some  gown  of  unusually  vivid  color ;  otherwise 
the  crowd  before  her  was  like  a  uniform  mass 
of  humanity.  Down  in  the  foreground,  she 
recognized  Arturo,  staring  intently  at  her  and 
beaming  encouragement  from  every  line  of  his 
round  face ;  and,  far  back  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
she  saw  Heaton,  who  had  just  come  in  with 
his  cousin.  His  face  was  stern  and  troubled; 
and,  do  what  she  would,  she  could  not  turn  her 
eyes  from  it,  though  she  felt  the  lump  rising  in 
her  throat  again  and  swelling  until  the  pain  of  it 
choked  her. 

167 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

The  prelude  was  ended,  and  she  began  to 
sing.  She  was  surprised  at  the  steadiness  of 
her  voice.  It  was  clear  and  firm,  but  so  remote 
and  monotonous.  It  seemed  to  her  to  have  no 
connection  with  herself;  it  was  as  if  she  were 
singing  from  the  acquired  momentum  of  her 
past  training,  and  her  present  will  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  She  realized  that  she  was  singing 
coldly,  mechanically ;  but  she  was  powerless,  for 
the  time  being,  to  throw  herself  into  the  spirit 
of  the  composer.  She  could  only  repeat  to 
herself,  — 

"  It 's  of  no  consequence,  anyway.  It 's  of  no 
consequence,  anyway." 

She  made  one  strong  effort,  as  she  reached 
the  closing  phrase;  but  though  she  took  her 
high  note  perfectly,  and  sustained  it  with  an 
ease  for  which  she  had  never  dared  to  hope,  she 
left  the  stage  amidst  the  coldest,  most  per- 
functory applause. 

Alas  for  the  encore  for  which  Arturo  had 
made  such  careful  preparation !  Her  possible 
triumph  had  proved  to  be  an  actual  failure. 
She  caught  one  glimpse  of  Arturo's  disappointed 
face,  and  without  waiting  for  him  to  come  to 
her,  she  had  turned  away  and  wearily  mounted 
the  stairs  again. 

Wyckoff  and  Mrs.  Emerson  joined  her  there 
almost  immediately.  Her  lashes  were  wet ;  but 
she  had  regained  something  of  her  usual  man- 
168 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ner,  and  she  laughed  nervously,  as  she  met 
them. 

"  Scold  me,  if  you  like,  Bertha,"  she  said.  "  I 
meant  well;  but  I  was  powerless  to  carry  out 
my  good  intentions.  I  am  sorry  to  have  dis- 
graced you ;  but  I  have  an  idea  that  it  is  harder 
for  me  than  for  you." 

Mrs.  Emerson  was  silent.  She  had  over- 
heard her  brother's  words  to  Elinor,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before,  and  her  womanly  intuition 
told  her  the  secret  of  the  girl's  absolute  fail- 
ure. But  Wyckoff  tried  to  find  something  to 
say. 

Elinor  turned  to  him  proudly. 

"  Don't  try  to  console  me,  Mr.  Wyckoff.  We 
all  know  that  I  sang  detestably,  so  what  is  the 
use  of  denying  the  fact?  Some  time  or  other,  I 
will  sing  so  that  you  can  congratulate  me.  Till 
then,  the  less  said,  the  better." 

Late  that  evening,  after  the  guests  had  gone 
away,  Mrs.  Emerson  came  into  the  library  where 
Heaton  still  sat  over  the  dying  fire. 

"  Tom,"  she  said  gently ;  "  were  n't  you  a 
little  hard  on  Elinor,  to-night?" 

He  raised  his  head  impatiently. 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"When  you  were  in  your  room,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  happened  to  hear  it,  and  I  thought 
you  were  too  severe.  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  you  lately,  Tom ;  you  are  so  change- 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

able  with  Elinor.  It  is  too  bad  for  you  to  play 
with  her  as  you  do." 

"  Play  with  her?  How  do  I  play  with  her?" 
he  asked,  forcing  his  voice  to  be  so  quiet  that  it 
was  devoid  of  all  expression. 

"You  treat  her  so  differently  at  different 
times,"  his  sister  went  on,  little  dreaming  of  the 
pain  she  was  causing  her  hearer,  who  sat  silent, 
with  his  face  shielded  from  the  heat  of  the  fire 
and  from  her  searching  eyes.  "  One  day,  you 
are  friendly  to  her;  the  next,  you  are  so  cold. 
Elinor  is  very  fond  of  you,  Tom.  She  has  been 
here  so  much  that  you  must  seem  almost  like  a 
brother  to  her,  and  it  is  too  bad  for  you  to  hurt 
her  in  this  way." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  did  n't 
know  I  did.  I  won't,  any  more." 

But  after  his  sister  had  left  him  alone,  he 
rose  and  stood  motionless  for  a  long  time,  with 
his  arm  resting  against  the  mantel,  his  head  on 
his  arm. 

At  length  he  broke  the  silence. 

"  Oh,  God,  have  pity !  "  he  moaned. 


170 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

"ISN'T  this  the  ideal  of  luxury?"  Elinor  ex- 
claimed gayly,  as  she  came  into  the  dining- 
room,  the  next  morning. 

She  looked  a  little  tired  and  her  eyes  were 
heavy,  otherwise  there  was  nothing  to  show  that 
she  had  lain  awake,  half  the  night,  over  her 
failure  of  the  previous  evening.  It  had  been  a 
severe  blow  to  her,  after  all  her  bright  anticipa- 
tions of  success;  but  she  was  at  no  loss  to 
account  for  it,  and  she  felt  that  it  in  no  way  con- 
cerned her  real  ability.  The  slightest  circum- 
stance had  changed  the  whole  result  of  the 
evening,  and  had  brought  disaster  and  dis- 
appointment upon  herself.  She  could  only 
look  forward  to  the  future  and  hope  that  some- 
time she  would  be  asked  to  sing  again,  when  she 
could  redeem  her  reputation.  Meanwhile,  she 
was  too  human  not  to  feel  a  deep  resentment 
towards  Heaton.  His  rudeness  to  her  had  been 
inexcusable.  He  alone  had  been  the  cause  of 
her  inability  to  throw  herself  into  the  music,  and 
sing  as  she  had  so  often  dreamed  of  singing. 

Over  and  over  again  she  asked   herself  why 
he  was  so  changeable  in   his   manner  to  her. 
171 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

She  could  see  no  cause  for  his  occasional  harsh- 
ness ;  it  was  rude  and  ungentlemanly  and  alto- 
gether unlike  himself.  Wyckoff  could  never 
have  been  guilty. of  such  discourtesy;  but  then, 
neither  could  his  cousin,  four  years  ago.  That 
was  it.  She  must  lay  it  all  to  his  trouble,  to  the 
disappointment  in  all  his  plans,  and  be  as  gen- 
erous as  she  could  be  to  forgive.  She  would 
have  felt  justified  in  cutting  the  acquaintance  of 
another  man  upon  less  provocation;  but  with 
Heaton  it  was  all  so  different. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  she  should  not  go 
back  to  the  boarding-house  until  the  following 
Monday.  After  she  was  in  her  room,  that 
night,  Mrs.  Emerson  had  gone  to  her,  and  she 
had  stayed  for  a  long  hour,  talking  over  the 
evening's  events.  Although  neither  of  the 
women  had  touched  upon  the  real  cause  of 
Elinor's  disaster,  Mrs.  Emerson  had  left  her 
feeling  in  some  measure  comforted.  At  least, 
it  was  a  relief  to  find  that  her  friends  still 
believed  in  her  talent.  It  gave  her  new  courage 
to  go  on.  Failure  was  inevitable  at  times;  it 
was  not  necessarily  final. 

As  she  met  Heaton,  the  next  morning,  she 
was  struck  anew  by  the  signs  of  age  and  sadness 
in  his  face.  He  showed  that  he,  too,  had  passed 
a  sleepless  night,  and  he  greeted  her  with  a  little 
manner  of  hesitation  which  asked  for  pardon 
more  eloquently  than  words  could  have  done. 
172 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"What  is  it?"  he  inquired  now,  as  he  seated 
himself.  "  You  are  a  true  optimist,  Miss  Tie- 
mann,  and  everything  is  rose-color  to  you." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  she  answered.  "  Rose- 
color  is  becoming  to  most  people,  and  I  like 
optimists.  I  feel  like  one,  to-day.  After  my 
experience,  last  night,  it  is  good  to  be  allowed 
to  spend  the  day  here,  just  as  if  I  had  n't  dis- 
graced you  all.  Moreover,  I  have  worked  hard 
enough,  this  last  week,  to  make  me  appreciate 
the  delights  of  settling  down  here  for  a  lazy, 
rainy  Sunday,  with  no  one  likely  to  interrupt 
us." 

"  It  had  n't  occurred  to  me  to  be  thankful  for 
this  rain,"  observed  Mr.  Emerson  ;  "  but  I  sup- 
pose I  must  rejoice  on  your  account." 

"  Certainly,"  she  responded  promptly.  "  The 
sight  of  you,  starting  off  to  church  with  mackin- 
tosh and  umbrella,  will  only  serve  to  enhance 
my  appreciation  of  my  own  comfort.  Even  the 
honor  of  being  senior  warden  of  a  popular 
church  has  its  inherent  disadvantages.  Nothing 
is  perfect  without  a  little  contrast ;  is  it,  Mr. 
Heaton  ?  To  make  my  bliss  complete,  I  had  a 
new  novel  sent  me,  yesterday,  and  I  was  inspired 
to  bring  it  with  me.  As  soon  as  we  get  rid  of 
your  husband,  Bertha,  the  rest  of  us  will  curl  up 
by  the  library  fire  and  give  ourselves  over  to  that 
most  delicious  of  combinations,  a  new  book  and 
a  rainy  day." 

'73 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

An  hour  later,  she  came  down  the  stairs,  book 
in  hand.  She  had  exchanged  her  close-fitting 
gown  for  a  waist  of  bright,  soft  silk.  It  was  a 
bewildering  combination  of  frills  and  puffs,  yet 
it  seemed  to  suit  her  rounded,  girlish  figure,  and 
the  vivid  bit  of  color  was  a  relief  from  the  dull 
background  of  a  stormy  November  day.  Heaton 
and  his  sister  had  settled  themselves  beside  the 
fire,  which  was  snapping  and  crackling  with  a 
cosy  sound  of  comfort.  Elinor  curled  herself 
up  in  a  corner  of  the  broad  couch  in  the  midst 
of  a  nest  of  many-colored  cushions,  with  her 
back  to  the  window  and  her  head  turned  so  that 
she  could  watch  Heaton  over  the  top  of  her 
book.  She  had  learned  that  his  face  was  prompt 
to  show  his  enjoyment,  and  she  liked  to  follow 
the  course  of  her  story,  written  in  his  changing 
expressions. 

For  two  hours  she  read  steadily,  while  the  fire 
crackled  and  the  rain  swept  against  the  windows. 
Now  and  then  she  paused,  as  she  turned  a  leaf 
or  began  a  new  chapter,  to  make  some  comment 
upon  the  story.  Mrs.  Emerson  was  absorbed  in 
the  book ;  but  Heaton,  underneath  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  plot  and  its  skilful  development,  was 
giving  himself  up  wholly  to  the  enjoyment  of 
their  quiet,  homelike  morning  together. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  they  had  spent  a  day 
like  this.  Usually  there  was  something  to  break 
in  upon  their  good  time,  some  one  to  monopolize 
»74 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Elinor  and  keep  her  talking  of  interests  in  which 
he  had  no  part.  This  was  like  the  earlier  days 
of  their  friendship,  and  it  followed  the  excite- 
ment of  the  night  before,  as  the  chorale  follows 
the  fugue.  For  the  hour,  it  was  good  to  stop 
living  and  merely  to  exist.  For  one  moment,  it 
occurred  to  him  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to 
spend  his  life  in  this  way,  to  have  her  always 
near  him,  willing  to  read  the  latest  books  to  him 
and  to  talk  them  over,  in  the  domestic  atmos- 
phere of  their  own  fireside.  Then  he  put  the 
thought  away  from  him  impatiently.  The  pres- 
ent was  all  that  could  be  desired ;  the  future 
must  take  care  of  itself. 

Later  in  the  morning,  when  Mrs.  Emerson  was 
called  away  for  a  few  moments,  Elinor  dropped 
the  book,  face  downward,  in  her  lap,  and  leaned 
back  among  her  cushions. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  on  account  of  my  knowing 
you  and  your  stories,"  she  said  musingly;  "  that 
now  I  never  read  a  novel  without  wondering  how 
the  author  felt  and  what  he  really  meant,  when 
he  wrote  this  or  that." 

"  I  suppose  books  are  always  something  of  a 
patchwork  of  one's  own  observations  and  expe- 
riences," Heaton  remarked.  "  Mercifully  for  us, 
though,  most  people  don't  read  them,  microscope 
in  hand,  hunting  for  the  seams." 

"  I  never  used  to  do  it,"  she  answered  ;  "  but 
lately  I  find  myself  trying  to  read  between  the 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

lines.  Most  of  all,  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  per- 
son the  author  has  in  mind,  when  he  makes  his 
hero  or  heroine.  I  know  there  must  always  be 
somebody  in  the  background,  even  if  he  does  n't 
admit  it  to  himself." 

"Fancy  depicting  the  adventures  of  a  pure 
abstraction  !  "  Heaton  laughed.  "  I  'm  afraid  the 
result  would  n't  be  very  human  or  very  sympa- 
thetic. I  confess  that  I  used  to  start  with  the 
skeleton  of  some  one  I  had  met,  and  then  pad 
it  out  to  suit  myself.  Lately  I  have  rather  left 
that  off,  though.  Women  are  my  trials.  My 
men  I  can  work  up  from  myself;  but  I  have 
to  carry  most  women  through  a  story  on  the 
strength  of  gray  eyes,  or  a  dimple  in  one 
cheek." 

"  I  might  keep  a  notebook  for  your  use,"  she 
suggested  laughingly,  while  she  twisted  the  little 
bracelet  on  her  left  wrist. 

"  I  am  in  earnest  about  it,"  he  replied.  "  I  find 
that  lately,  as  my  memory  grows  less  reliable,  I 
have  to  do  most  of  my  descriptive  work  at  ran- 
dom. It  hampers  me  badly,  and  I  don't  want  it 
to  show  in  my  writing." 

"  I  had  n't  thought  of  it  before,"  Elinor  said 
gently.  "Your  stories  don't  show  it  yet;  but, 
if  there  ever  should  be  any  danger  of  it,  could  n't 
Bertha  help  you,  or  I?" 

"Thank  you  for  thinking  to  offer,  anyway. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  I  am  really  getting  to  be 
176 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

fairly  proficient  in  Braille  ?  It 's  a  great  help  to 
me  already,  for  now  I  can  read  over  my  work 
and  have  some  idea  of  what  I  am  doing.  But 
please  don't  think  that  I  bore  everybody  with 
my  work  as  I  do  you,  Miss  Tiemann.  There  is 
something  about  you  that  makes  me  egotistic, 
I  'm  afraid." 

"  It  is  probably  contagious,"  she  answered 
merrily.  "  You  ought  to  know  by  this  time 
how  interested  I  am  in  it,  and  in  the  greater 
success  which  you  are  going  to  have,  some 
day.  Only  don't  forget  all  your  old  friends, 
when  you  are  sitting  calmly  perched  on  the 
topmost  pinnacle  of  fame."  And  she  took  up 
her  book  again,  as  Mrs.  Emerson  came  back 
into  the  room. 

How  many  people  to  whom  we  readily  con- 
fide our  plans  and  hopes  and  aspirations  are 
like  \h&  pot-pourri  jar  in  which  the  young  society 
man  has  been  said  to  stow  away  the  roses  given 
him  by  different  maidens !  In  either  case,  the 
offering  is  willingly  received,  sometimes  begged 
or  demanded ;  but  once  taken  in,  it  quickly  loses 
all  individuality  of  being  or  association.  Some 
people  are  born  to  receive  confidences.  Their 
sympathy  and  interest  may  be  genuine  while 
they  last;  but  they  speedily  die  away,  leaving 
no  permanent  trace  behind  them. 

"  Miss  Tiemann  gets  up  a  great  reputation  for 
her  intelligence,"  remarked  the  worldly-wise 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Ned,  one  day.  "  It 's  funny  that  you  fellows 
don't  get  on  to  it.  She  pumps  each  one  of 
you  about  your  pet  hobby;  then  she  passes 
on  the  information  to  the  next  man,  and  as- 
tonishes him  with  knowing  so  much  in  so 
many  lines.  She's  a  schemer,  and  she  has 
learned  to  work  it  to  perfection." 

However,  there  was  no  insincerity  underlying 
Elinor's  apparent  interest  in  Heaton's  work. 
Her  quick,  restless  mind  loved  to  wander  from 
one  subject  to  another,  and  she  entered  into 
this  hobby  and  that  of  her  different  friends  with 
an  interest  which  was  as  real  as  it  was  swift  and 
changing.  She  talked  politics  and  theology 
with  elderly  men  just  as  eagerly  as  she  dis- 
cussed literature  with  Heaton,  music  with 
WyckofT,  or  athletics  with  Ned;  and  uncon- 
sciously she  impressed  upon  each  in  turn  that 
this  was  her  one  especial  interest.  Small  won- 
der that  her  companion  of  the  moment  found 
himself  pouring  all  his  pet  theories  into  her 
sympathetic  ear ! 

It  was  late,  that  evening,  when  the  book  was 
finished  and  they  were  ready  to  separate  for 
the  night.  Heaton  went  immediately  to  his 
room  and  locked  the  door,  before  throwing  him- 
self down  upon  the  sofa.  That  night,  in  the 
midst  of  Elinor's  reading,  a  new  and  daring  idea 
had  suggested  itself  to  him ;  and  he  wanted  to 
be  quiet  and  alone,  to  think  it  out  at  his  leisure. 
178 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

For  weeks,  he  had  been  too  much  absorbed 
in  himself  to  be  in  the  spirit  of  work ;  but  all  at 
once  the  mood  for  writing  had  come  back. 
Why  not  begin  a  novel,  at  last,  and  make  a 
study  of  Elinor  for  his  heroine?  If  he  failed, 
what  then  ?  It  would  be  a  constant  delight  to 
write  of  her,  even  in  the  disguise  of  the  con- 
ventional heroine,  to  fancy  what  she  would  say, 
or  think,  or  do  under  all  sorts  of  imaginary  cir- 
cumstances. No  matter  what  was  the  result, 
there  would  be  pleasure  enough  in  the  work 
itself.  And  if  he  should  succeed?  His  brain 
throbbed  at  the  thought. 

Success  would  be  sweet  to  him,  as  to  any 
other  young  writer ;  but,  beyond  all  that,  there 
was  the  knowledge  that  he  might  put  into  the 
story  some  hint  of  his  love  which  she  could  not 
fail  to  understand.  He  would  change  all  the 
surroundings  and  conditions,  he  would  make  it 
too  vague  for  others  to  realize ;  she  surely  could 
not  resent  it.  And  if  she  did  read  it  and  respond 
to  it,  there  could  have  been  nothing  ungenerous 
in  this  method  of  telling  her  his  love.  That  was 
the  main  point,  and  of  that  he  felt  sure,  view  the 
matter  in  whatsoever  light  he  would.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  she  read  his  unspoken  message 
and  was  unable  to  answer  it,  she  would  scarcely 
realize  how  deliberately  he  had  tried  to  write  it 
there.  She  would  only  smile  a  little  over  the  ab- 
surdity, and  then  forget  all  about  it  once  more. 
179 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

All  sorts  of  vague  notions  of  a  plot  were  rush- 
ing through  his  brain,  and  scenes  and  characters 
danced  about  in  the  darkness,  dim  and  confused 
at  first,  then  clearer  and  more  orderly,  until,  in 
one  supreme  moment  of  clairvoyance,  the  whole 
idea,  complete  and  entire,  stood  revealed  to  him. 
He  started  up  and  crossed  the  room  to  the 
table,  to  make  a  few  notes,  at  least,  before  the 
inspiration  should  leave  him. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life,  the  dawn 
found  him  still  bending  above  his  table,  with  a 
pile  of  finished  sheets  by  his  side.  Before,  he 
wrote  to  deaden  his  pain ;  this  time,  his  destiny 
was  in  his  work,  and  it  was  hurrying  him  on  and 
yet  on  towards  its  fulfilment. 


1 80 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

DURING  the  next  few  weeks,  Heaton  gave  him- 
self unremittingly  to  his  chosen  task.  Often  his 
heart  failed  him  and  he  despaired  of  success, 
often  he  was  interrupted ;  but  still  he  toiled  on, 
for  he  felt  that  this  was  the  opportunity  of  his 
life.  If  he  failed,  it  should  be  his  final  attempt. 
If  success  awaited  him,  it  might  bring  him  so 
much  in  its  train. 

He  realized  all  the  difficulty  of  his  plot,  all 
the  obstacles  which  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
writing  a  story  on  so  much  broader  lines  than 
anything  he  had  attempted  before.  And  yet, 
.in  all  his  days  of  discouragement,  he  never 
swerved  from  his  original  plan.  He  felt  some- 
times that  his  real  life  was  in  the  people  of  his 
story,  and,  as  the  days  went  on,  even  Elinor 
grew  to  seem  less  lifelike  to  him,  and  her 
picture  in  the  pages  before  him  took  on  all  the 
semblance  of  vitality.  It  was  not  only  when  he 
was  writing  that  he  carried  with  him  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  story.  He  lived  and  moved  in 
an  atmosphere  of  his  own,  rousing  himself  at 
times  to  meet  the  friends  outside,  then  falling 
181 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

back  again  into  the  silent  inner  life  which  to 
him  was  eloquent  with  the  voices  of  his  own 
people,  the  friends  of  his  own  creation. 

Few  men  have  worked  under  greater  disad- 
vantages. Again  and  again  he  looked  back 
with  gratitude  to  the  night  when  Elinor  had 
first  suggested  to  him  the  use  of  the  relief 
writing  of  the  blind.  The  need  for  it  was 
imperative  now.  Until  the  whole  should  be 
finished,  the  secret  of  the  story  must  remain  all 
his  own,  and  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go 
over  his  work  again  and  again.  The  process 
was  slow  and  tiresome.  His  touch  lacked  the 
acuteness  of  those  who  are  born  blind,  and  his 
time  of  study  had  been  too  short  to  develop  it, 
or  to  perfect  his  knowledge  of  the  arbitrary 
characters  he  must  use.  There  were  days  when 
his  fingers  failed  him  altogether,  when  his  brain 
refused  to  give  any  coherent  response  to  the 
confused  jumble  of  dots  under  his  hand.  And 
yet,  all  in  all,  it  was  a  help  to  him.  It  might 
take  him  four  hours  to  accomplish  what  a  seeing 
man  could  have  done  in  one ;  but  nevertheless 
it  was  rendering  the  impossibility  possible,  and 
he  was  thankful  for  so  much.  To  his  mind,  there 
was  a  certain  fitness  in  it  that  Elinor's  chance 
suggestion,  made  so  long  ago,  should  find  its 
first  real  outcome  in  this  work  which  he  vaguely 
hoped  might  bring  them  together.  He  used  to 
smile  happily  to  himself,  in  his  more  coura- 
182 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

geous  moods,  as  he  pictured  the  day  when  he 
could  tell  her  the  whole  story  and  show  her  how 
great  was  his  indebtedness  to  her. 

Day  by  day  his  work  went  on  more  surely 
than  even  he  realized.  There  were  hours  when 
his  characters  appeared  to  take  the  story  into 
their  own  hands,  and  to  say  and  do  all  sorts 
of  unaccountable  words  and  deeds.  There  were 
hours  when  he  sat  motionless,  with  his  face 
resting  upon  his  clasped  fingers,  trying  in  vain 
to  get  the  clue  which  he  had  lost  at  the  sound 
of  the  summons  to  lunch,  or  of  Ruth's  voice  out- 
side ;  and  there  were  moments  when  the  words 
and  sentences  crowded  into  his  brain  faster  than 
he  could  record  them. 

Now  and  then  he  stopped  and  deliberately 
read  over  his  work  from  the  beginning.  It 
always  caused  him  a  mingled  pain  and  pleasure, 
for  while  he  groaned  in  spirit  over  its  crudeness, 
its  overdrawn  scenes  and  characters,  he  yet  was 
forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  its  pages  were 
keenly  alive  and  human.  Why  should  they  not 
be?  Ail-unconsciously  he  had  placed  there, 
not  a  picture  of  Elinor  Tiemann,  as  he  had  in- 
tended, but  of  himself,  Tom  Heaton,  in  all  his 
weakness  and  all  his  strength. 

"  You  are  always  so  busy  now,"  Elinor  said 
regretfully,  one  day.     "  I  scarcely  see  you  when 
I   come   here.     You   must  be  writing  a  three- 
volume  novel,  at  the  very  least." 
183 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Heaton  laughed  uneasily. 

"  I  am,"  he  answered ;  "  only  it  is  to  be  in 
fifteen  volumes,  after  Dumas." 

"  How  delightful !  Do  put  me  in  as  heroine 
of  a  few  of  them.  You  promised  to  do  it,  you 
know,  when  we  first  met  at  Idlewilde." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  could  never  do  you  justice," 
he  replied.  "  Please  remember  that  I  only  deal 
with  old  women  and  sinful  small  boys." 

"  You  might  at  least  give  me  a  namesake," 
she  suggested,  laughing.  "  That  would  be  still 
better.  I  might  not  be  able  to  recognize  myself 
in  the  guise  of  a  heroine ;  but  my  name  would 
be  unmistakable." 

"Very  well;  how  do  you  spell  it?"  he 
asked,  entering  into  her  mood  with  unexpected 
readiness. 

"E-l-i,  of  course.  Didn't  you  know  that? 
I  have  had  a  prejudice  against  the  other  spell- 
ing, ever  since  I  was  a  child.  I  used  to  accent 
it  on  the  second  syllable,  and  I  always  supposed 
it  had  some  connection  with  emaciated  people. 
But  I  did  n't  come  here  to  talk  about  your  work ; 
I  'm  much  more  interested  in  my  own.  We  are 
going  to  have  our  final '  Elijah  '  rehearsal,  Friday 
night,  with  the  full  orchestra,  and  Herr  Sig- 
maringen  for  his  solos.  Don't  you  and  Bertha 
want  to  come  down;  or  is  it  too  trite?  But 
perhaps  you  are  too  busy." 

"  I  'm  never  too  busy  for  music,"  he  answered. 
184 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I  always  write  better  after  I  have  heard  some- 
thing good,  as  if  there  were  an  inspiration  in  it. 
Besides,  I  am  half  ashamed  to  confess  it ;  but  I 
have  never  happened  to  hear  '  Elijah.' " 

"  It  is  high  time  you  had,"  she  said,  as  she 
rose  to  go.  "  I  shall  look  for  you,  and  I  only 
hope  you  will  enjoy  it  as  much  as  I  always  do." 

Friday  evening  came,  one  of  the  clear  Decem- 
ber nights  when  the  stars  seem  to  stab  the  cold, 
still  air  with  their  sharp  brilliancy.  Inside  the 
hall,  the  rehearsal  was  half  over.  The  walls 
had  just  echoed  with  the  wild  chorus  at  the 
close  of  the  first  part  of  the  oratorio,  when  the 
wind  and  the  rain  and  the  storm  of  human 
voices  appear  to  vie  with  one  another  in  the 
triumphal  shout  of  Thanks.  In  the  sudden 
hush  of  the  intermission,  Elinor,  with  Wyckoff 
at  her  side,  made  her  way  to  her  guests.  Her 
face  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  the  stars 
outside. 

"  Is  n't  it  glorious  ? "  she  exclaimed  breath- 
lessly. "  I  never  go  through  that  Rain  Chorus 
without  being  completely  carried  away  by  its 
power.  It  does  n't  seem  to  make  any  difference 
how  often  I  sing  it.  There  is  something  grand 
in  feeling  that  you  are  even  a  thousandth  part 
of  such  music.  I  believe  that  it  is  more  of  an 
experience  to  sing  in  one's  first  oratorio  than  to 
write  one's  first  novel." 

"You'll  have  to  ask  Tom  about  that,  Miss 
'85 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Tiemann,"  interposed  Wyckoff.  "  I  am  getting 
a  little  used  to  her  fine  frenzy,"  he  went  on. 
"  At  first,  I  was  afraid  of  insanity ;  but  now  that 
I  find  it  is  only  chronic  hysteria,  I  no  longer 
worry.  I  have  given  up  trying  to  get  a  word 
out  of  her,  when  once  the  music  begins." 

"  Mr.  Wyckoff  has  benevolently  changed 
places  with  my  flatting  neighbor,"  Elinor  ex- 
plained. "  But  truly,  don't  you  envy  me  ?  "  she 
asked,  turning  again  to  Heaton,  whose  nerves 
were  still  quivering  with  the  excitement  of  the 
stormy  scenes  on  Carmel,  heard  for  the  first 
time. 

"  There 's  a  chance  for  you  to  make  a  grace- 
ful speech,  Tom,"  his  cousin  suggested.  "  Why 
not  say  that  you  envy  me  for  my  position  in  the 
chorus?  Bertha,  I  shall  be  thankful  when  this 
thing  is  over.  If  it  were  to  continue  very  long, 
Miss  Tiemann's  nervous  system  would  be  com- 
pletely shattered." 

"  It  is  too  bad  to  laugh  at  me,"  she  protested. 
"  Remember  that  I  am  a  crude  Westerner, 
unused  to  this  sort  of  thing.  I  shall  take  it 
more  calmly,  another  time ;  though  I  doubt  if 
any  other  oratorio  can  ever  be  as  enjoyable  to 
me  as  this  one." 

"Wait  till  you  sing  as  soloist  in  one,"  said 
Wyckoff  teasingly. 

"  Hush,"  she  said,  as  her  color  came.  "  Arturo 
is  over  there  in  the  corner,  and  I  don't  want  him 
186 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

to  hear  you.  He  has  absolutely  no  sense  of 
humor,  and  he  would  think  I  was  really  aiming 
at  that  eminence.  He  was  politely  sarcastic,  at 
my  last  lesson,  and  he  told  me  that  I  would 
have  a  very  pretty  little  voice  in  time,  if  I  were 
careful  of  it.  He  is  glaring  at  me  now,  and  I 
must  bow  to  him.  Behold  my  meekness !  " 
And  she  gave  a  deprecating  salute  in  his 
direction. 

"  Elinor,  I  am  positively  ashamed  of  your 
lack  of  spirit,"  said  Mrs.  Emerson,  laughing. 
"  The  idea  of  being  afraid  of  such  a  pigmy  !  " 

"  Though  he  be  but  little,  he  is  fierce,"  re- 
sponded Elinor,  as  the  baton  sounded  and  she 
turned  to  go  back  to  her  place.  "  He  never 
grew  up  to  fit  his  temper,  and  it  has  become 
wrinkled  from  being  packed  into  such  small 
compass." 

Perhaps  the  second  part  of  the  "  Elijah  "  is  not 
quite  so  powerful  as  the  first;  perhaps,  after 
his  long  day's  work,  Heaton  was  a  little  tired  of 
listening.  In  any  case,  he  found  it  impossible 
to  lose  himself  in  the  music  so  completely  as 
he  had  done  before  the  intermission.  He  was 
only  conscious  that,  sitting  somewhere  in  the 
great  chorus  before  him,  Elinor  and  Jack  were 
side  by  side  and  carried  along  in  the  same  tide 
of  musical  excitement,  enjoying  the  composer's 
masterpiece  as  only  those  can  do  who  have  a 
share,  however  slight,  in  its  interpretation.  It 
187 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

was  only  at  the  very  last,  when  the  orchestra 
changed  to  the  final  maestoso,  and  the  chorus 
took  up  the  stately  movement  of  "  Then  shall 
your  Light  Break  forth  as  the  Light  of  Morning 
Breaketh,"  that  once  more  the  rest  of  the  world 
stood  remote.  Then  once  again  he  sat,  as  if 
alone,  enjoying  the  great  volume  of  harmony 
which  rose  and  swelled  around  and  above  him 
into  the  grand  resonance  of  the  final  Amen. 

All  that  night,  the  sound  was  in  his  ears. 
Long  years  before,  at  Idlewilde,  he  had  lain  in 
his  hammock  under  the  trees  and  listened  to 
the  choir  boys,  up  in  the  cabin  on  the  hill. 
They  had  been  singing  that  same  grand  chorus. 
He  had  not  known  it  then;  now  he  recalled 
it  so  vividly.  He  could  not  sleep ;  he  was 
content  to  lie  passive  and  listen  to  that  prom- 
ise of  light.  It  was  as  if  past  and  present 
had  met,  and  were  sending  him  the  same  mes- 
sage. Involuntarily  he  connected  it  with  his 
half-finished  novel,  and  he  fell  asleep  at  last, 
resting  in  the  hope  that  his  light  would  come  to 
him  through  his  work,  that  his  new  day  would 
break  when  once  his  story  could  be  placed  in 
Elinor's  hands. 

The  hope  remained  with  him  all  the  next 
day,  and  increased  until  it  amounted  to  a  super- 
stition. As  he  bent  over  his  table,  the  words 
were  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  inspiring  him 
to  renewed  efforts.  There  was  a  sparkle  and 
1 88 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

life  in  his  work,  that  morning,  which  he  had 
never  gained  before.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
his  ears,  when  he  heard  little  Ruth  come  toiling 
up  the  stairs  to  call  him  to  lunch. 

"  You  look  tired,  Tom,"  urged  Mrs.  Emerson, 
as  she  saw  him  make  a  move  towards  the  stairs, 
an  hour  later.  "  Why  do  you  work  any  longer, 
to-day?" 

"  I  am  feeling  just  like  it,"  he  answered. 
"Let  me  have  two  or  three  hours  more  to 
myself.  Then  I  will  be  more  sociable." 

"  Who  ever  expected  to  see  you  so  absorbed 
again?"  she  said,  as  she  stood  looking  up  at 
him.  "  You  were  so  long  without  writing  that  I 
was  afraid  you  would  never  touch  it  any  more." 

"  No  danger  of  that,"  he  replied,  laughing. 
"  A  longing  for  literary  success  is  like  malaria ; 
once  get  it  thoroughly  into  your  system,  and 
there  is  no  getting  it  out  again.  I  shall  prob- 
ably go  on  writing  till  the  end  of  the  chapter 
—  which  will  be  at  about  five  o'clock." 

But  at  half-past  four,  he  was  roused  by  hear- 
ing Elinor's  voice,  down-stairs. 

"Yes,  it  was  too  fine  a  day  to  stay  in  the 
house,  so  I  thought  I  would  run  over  to  spend 
an  hour  and  drink  a  social  cup  of  tea  with  you. 
How  did  you  and  Mr.  Heaton  enjoy  yourselves, 
last  night?" 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  making  one  of 
the  most  carefully  studied  effects  of  his  story; 
189 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

but,  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  it  fled  from  his 
mind.  He  waited  in  vain  for  a  moment  or  two, 
hoping  that  it  would  come  back  to  him.  Then 
he  rose  impatiently  and  went  down  to  the 
library. 

Elinor  was  chattering  to  Mrs.  Emerson  about 
some  plan  she  was  making  for  the  holidays. 
As  Heaton  came  into  the  room,  she  instantly 
rose  to  meet  him,  with  the  little  air  of  cordiality 
which  invariably  marked  her  treatment  of  him, 
as  differing  from  her  manner  to  other  men. 
Then  the  talk  went  rambling  on  to  one  subject 
after  another,  while  the  tray  was  brought  in, 
and  Mrs.  Emerson  made  the  tea  which  always 
adds  a  flavor  of  sociability  to  the  most  formal  of 
conversations. 

At  length  Elinor  left  them.  Heaton,  eager 
for  his  work  again,  turned  away  and  went  up  to 
his  room.  As  he  felt  for  the  knob  of  the  door, 
to  his  surprise  he  found  that  the  door  was  wide 
open.  A  moment  later,  a  childish  voice  fell  on 
his  ears, — 

"  Hullo,  Uncle  Tom !  I  corned  up  here  to 
see  you,  and  I  fought  you  would  n't  ever  come 
back.  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  a  story.  And 
I  'm  so  sorry ;  but  I  tipped  over  all  that  great  pile 
of  papers  on  your  desk.  I  put  it  back ;  but  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  'twas  some  mixed  up." 

Heaton  crossed  the  room  and  put  out  his 
hand  in  search  of  the  orderly  pile  of  manuscript 
190 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

he  had  left  when  he  went  down-stairs.  In  its 
place,  he  found  a  rough,  untidy  heap  of  paper, 
piled  in  confusion  across  the  whole  end  of  the 
table.  Ruth  watched  him  intently. 

"  Uncle  Tom,  are  you  cross  to  me  ? "  she 
asked,  after  the  silence  had  lasted  for  a  minute. 

"  Cross,  baby?     No;  I  hope  not.     Why?" 

"  'Cause  I  mixed  it  all  up,"  she  said  peni- 
tently. 

"  No,  baby."  And  there  was  in  his  tone  an 
utter  weariness  which  even  her  young  ears 
could  realize.  "Uncle  is  used  to  having  things 
mixed  up ;  but  perhaps,  if  he  tries  very  hard, 
he  can  straighten  them  out  a  little.  We  can 
only  wait  to  see." 


191 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

"  MY  aunt,  Mrs.  Mackie,  has  just  dropped  down 
upon  me  very  unexpectedly,"  Elinor  wrote. 
"  She  is  only  to  be  here  for  a  day  or  two ;  but 
I  want  you  and  your  brother  to  meet  her.  If 
you  have  no  other  engagement,  go  with  us  to 
Mr.  Oertzen's  recital,  this  afternoon,  and  then 
dine  with  us  afterwards." 

"  You  see,"  she  explained  to  her  aunt,  after 
she  had  dispatched  a  messenger  with  her  note ; 
"  I  am  serving  a  double  purpose  in  this  invita- 
tion. I  want  you  to  meet  Bertha,  of  course, 
and  I  suppose  you  will  enjoy  seeing  Mr.  Heaton 
again.  Moreover,  I  have  accepted  so  much 
from  them,  socially  speaking,  that  it  is  a  positive 
relief  to  be  able  to  entertain  them  under  proper 
chaperonage.  It  seems  very  good  to  be  con- 
ventional and  have  a  duenna  once  more." 

Mrs.  Mackie  smiled,  as  she  sat  looking  up  at 
her  pretty  niece.  She  had  studied  the  girl 
closely,  since  her  arrival,  the  night  before ;  and 
the  result  of  her  scrutiny  was  satisfactory.  Elinor 
was  well,  happy  in  her  work,  and  developing 
beyond  her  highest  aspirations.  It  had  not 
193 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

been  altogether  with  the  approval  of  Mrs.  Mackie 
that  Elinor  had  taken  up  this  life  of  homeless 
study  in  New  York.  A  thoroughly  domestic 
existence  would  have  been  more  her  choice  for 
her  niece  than  a  possible  musical  career,  how- 
ever brilliant.  Nevertheless,  she  had  watched 
Elinor  from  her  childhood,  and  she  had  seen 
the  slow,  steady  growth  of  her  talent  and  with 
it  the  restless  longing  for  a  broader  training  than 
their  little  western  town  could  give.  With  a 
certain  reluctance,  she  had  consented  to  Elinor's 
coming  to  New  York,  and  she  had  missed  the 
bright  companionship  which  had  transformed 
her  childless  home.  Now,  however,  she  acknowl- 
edged to  herself  that  the  experiment  had  been 
an  undoubted  success. 

It  was  the  morning  for  Elinor's  lesson,  and 
the  girl  insisted  that  Mrs.  Mackie  should  go 
with  her.  On  their  return,  they  found  awaiting 
them  a  note  from  Mrs.  Emerson  to  say  that  her 
carriage  would  take  them  all  down  town  to- 
gether. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  meet  Mrs.  Emerson, 
Elinor,"  Mrs.  Mackie  said,  as  she  took  off  her 
bonnet.  "  Your  letters  are  full  of  her,  and  I 
feel  rather  as  if  she  were  temporarily  matroniz- 
ing  you." 

"  What  about  Mr.  Heaton  ?  "  Elinor  inquired. 
"  Don't  you  want  to  meet  him  again,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  sure." 

13  193 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Elinor  turned  to  her 
a  little  sharply.  "I  thought  you  always  liked 
him." 

Mrs.  Mackie  raised  her  eyebrows  at  her  own 
reflection  in  the  mirror. 

"  I  did  like  him,  and  all  the  more  I  dislike  to 
see  him  now.  He  was  such  an  alert,  independent 
man  that  I  half  dread  to  see  the  change  in  him. 
You  wrote  me  you  felt  something  the  same  thing, 
yourself,  Elinor,  when  you  first  came  here." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl  thoughtfully;  "I 
know ;  but  that  was  long  ago,  before  I  was  used 
to  him.  Now  I  find  it  hard  to  realize  that  he 
was  ever  —  like  the  rest  of  us.  I  think  you  '11 
see  what  I  mean.  Bertha  wants  us  to  dine 
with  her,  to-morrow  night,  and  meet  Mr.  Wyck- 
off,"  she  added. 

Mrs.  Mackie  waited  with  some  impatience  for 
the  afternoon.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  under- 
stand the  precise  relation  between  her  niece  and 
Heaton.  Elinor's  frequent  mention  of  him  in 
her  letters  could  not  fail  to  make  her  uneasy. 
Three  years  before,  she  would  have  consented 
gladly  to  Heaton  as  a  prospective  nephew; 
but  she  could  hardly  be  expected  to  approve 
of  Elinor's  falling  in  love  with  a  blind  man, 
however  fine  his  character  might  be.  Study  as 
she  would,  she  could  not  quite  read  Elinor's 
mind  in  regard  to  him.  She  must  wait  to  see 
them  together. 

194 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

She  met  with  a  distinct  shock,  when  the  car- 
riage stopped  at  the  door  and  she  stepped  into 
it.  Was  this  Heaton,  this  saddened,  worn- 
looking  man,  with  the  hai^  grown  white  about 
his  thin  face,  and  the  slow,  uncertain  motions? 
He  met  her  cordially,  and  as  his  face  lighted, 
she  could  see  something  that  reminded  her  of 
their  old  companion  of  a  summer  day;  but  the 
likeness  was  faint  and  blurred.  She  watched 
the  off-hand  way  in  which  Elinor  greeted  him  and 
dropped  into  the  seat  at  his  side.  There  was  no 
trace  of  self-consciousness  in  the  girl's  manner, 
and  Mrs.  Mackie's  fears  were  somewhat  allayed. 

As  they  left  the  carriage  and  were  crossing 
the  pavement,  Mrs.  Mackie  stopped  abruptly. 

"  I  have  left  my  fan  in  the  carriage,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  but  I  shall  be 
so  much  more  comfortable  if  I  have  it." 

Mrs.  Emerson  turned  back  with  her,  and 
Elinor  and  Heaton  were  left  standing  alone  at 
the  entrance  to  the  hall.  They  were  just  in  the 
path  of  the  people  who  were  passing  in,  and  one 
or  two  of  them  jostled  against  Heaton.  Elinor 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Come,"  she  said ;  "  we  '11  go  inside  the  door- 
way and  wait  for  them  there." 

The  steps  were  strange  to  him,  and  Heaton 
went  up  them  slowly,  feeling  his  way  with  his 
feet.  Inside  the  doorway,  they  halted  to  wait 
for  the  others. 

'95 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  gone  backward,  a  few 
years,"  Heaton  said,  breaking  the  pause.  "  Your 
aunt  is  so  exactly  as  she  used  to  be  that  I  can't 
realize  it  is  more  than  three  years  since  I  saw 
her." 

"Auntie  doesn't  change  at  all,"  Elinor  an- 
swered, as  she  bowed  to  a  passing  acquaintance. 
"  She 's  a  little  grayer,  that  is  all.  You  don't 
know  how  astonished  I  was  when  she  descended 
upon  me,  last  night." 

"  You  did  n't  know  she  was  coming?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  think  she  took  me  by 
surprise,  to  see  if  she  could  catch  me  in  mis- 
chief. She  has  never  really  approved  of  my 
studying  music,  you  know ;  she  always  has  felt 
that  it  was  incompatible  with  my  becoming  a 
good  housekeeper." 

"Is  it?" 

"  Of  course  not.  I  don't  see  why  a  woman 
can't  bake  bread  and  brew  beer  successfully, 
even  if  she  is  an  artist.  Not  that  I  ever  expect 
to  be  one.  Fate  was  good  to  me,  last  night, 
though." 

"  You  were  n't  in  mischief,  then  ?  "  Heaton 
queried  absently. 

"  I  *  was  a  picture  of  domestic  quiet.  My 
piano  was  closed,  my  music  put  away,  and  I 
was  darning  stockings.  I  could  n't  have  ar- 
ranged it  better,  if  I  had  known  what  was  in 
store  for  me.  Even  Auntie  had  to  admit  that 
196 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  demoralizations  of  city  life  had  left  me 
unscathed.  Here  they  come  at  last,"  she  added, 
as  Mrs.  Mackie  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

Then  she  hesitated.  When  they  left  the  car- 
riage, Mrs.  Emerson  had  taken  her  brother's 
arm  to  guide  him  into  the  strange  hall.  Now, 
as  they  stood  together,  it  was  natural  for  Elinor 
and  Heaton  to  lead  the  way,  and  she  was  at  a 
loss  what  to  do.  Unused  as  she  was  to  leading 
him,  she  felt  the  embarrassment  of  the  situation, 
and  she  shrank  from  the  task ;  yet  she  feared 
that  it  would  be  too  open  a  reminder  of  his 
helplessness  if  she  deliberately  waited  for  his 
sister  to  come  to  him.  She  stood  for  a  moment, 
irresolute.  Then,  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  she 
saw  the  color  coming  and  going  in  his  cheeks. 
Evidently  he  realized  the  position  and  found  it 
a  galling  one.  Her  own  color  came,  as  she 
took  his  arm  with  a  little  air  of  decision. 

"  They  are  just  behind  us,"  she  said.  "  What 
if  we  lead  the  way  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  aisle  was  endless,  as 
she  followed  the  usher  to  their  seats ;  but  there 
was  no  trace  of  hesitation  in  her  manner  when 
she  took  her  place,  drew  Heaton  down  beside 
her,  and  then  turned  to  speak  to  the  friend  she 
had  chanced  to  find  at  her  other  hand.  Mrs. 
Mackie  and  Heaton  were  talking  together,  and 
it  left  her  a  moment  to  recover  herself.  It  had 
not  been  an  easy  thing  for  her  to  do.  She  had 
197 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

many  acquaintances  scattered  through  the  audi- 
ence who  could  not  have  failed  to  notice  her 
when  she  came  in ;  but  she  was  willing  to  have 
braved  their  gaze,  as  she  saw  the  relief  on 
Heaton's  face  when  once  he  was  seated.  It  had 
needed  all  his  sister's  urging  to  make  him  con- 
sent to  accept  Elinor's  invitation,  and  the  slight 
uncertainty  at  the  door  had  been  a  painful 
ordeal  to  him.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any 
one  but  his  sister  and  Jack  had  led  him  into 
unfamiliar  places ;  and  it  was  at  once  a  pleasure 
and  a  pain  to  receive  such  service  from  Elinor. 

"  It  is  such  a  good  programme,"  she  said  at 
length,  as  she  turned  back  to  him ;  "  German 
songs,  to  start  with.  I  always  love  Schumann ; 
don't  you?" 

"  I  was  telling  Mr.  Heaton  my  great  piece  of 
Idlewilde  news,"  Mrs.  Mackie  said,  as  she  leaned 
forward  to  speak  to  her  niece.  "  I  had  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Rose,  last  week,  and  she  says  it  is 
rumored  that  Napoleon  is  to  be  married.  Can 
you  fancy  such  a  thing?" 

"  It  is  a  little  incongruous,"  Heaton  observed, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  the 
man  dawned  upon  me.  It  seemed  to  me  there 
was  more  unconscious  humor  about  him  than 
any  one  I  had  ever  met  before." 

"  I  prefer  Arturo,  myself,"  Elinor  remarked, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  He  is  only  three  seats  in 
front  of  me,  and  I  am  in  momentary  terror  of 
198 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

his  seeing  me.  He  was  in  a  detestable  mood, 
this  morning,  just  when  I  wished  him  to  show 
off  well.  But  here  comes  Mr.  Oertzen." 

There  was  the  little  stir  of  a  large  audience 
which  is  settling  itself  to  listen  to  a  favorite 
singer;  there  was  the  quick  burst  of  applause 
that  greeted  him.  Then  the  stillness  dropped 
down  about  Heaton  until  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  hear  his  pulses  throbbing  aloud.  He 
never  forgot  the  hour  that  followed.  Sitting 
there,  under  the  spell  of  that  wonderful  voice, 
a  voice  which  sways  one  to  tears  at  its  will,  he 
was  only  conscious  that  Elinor  was  beside  him, 
sharing  his  mood,  heedful  of  his  comfort.  Other 
people  were  present,  of  course ;  but  for  him 
they  had  no  existence.  He  and  Elinor  were 
there  together,  and  the  songs  were  intended  for 
their  ears  alone. 

Involuntarily  and  without  losing  a  note  of  the 
programme,  his  brain  was  occupying  itself  with 
the  questions  which,  day  by  day,  were  absorb- 
ing more  and  more  of  his  thoughts.  She  had 
been  quick,  when  they  stood  together  at  the 
door,  to  read  his  mood  and  to  see  the  passing 
annoyance  of  his  helplessness.  Could  she  have 
been  so  prompt  to  understand  him,  if  she  were 
altogether  indifferent  to  his  love?  He  could 
still  feel  the  firm,  quiet  pressure  of  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  Was  her  gracious  act  one  of 
mere  friendship  alone?  Had  there  not  been 
199 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

some  deeper  feeling  which  helped  her  to  inter- 
pret his  thought  so  readily?  A  burst  of  applause 
roused  him,  as  the  singer  left  the  stage  for  the 
intermission. 

"  No  need  to  ask  if  you  are  enjoying  it," 
Elinor  said  lightly,  under  cover  of  the  murmur 
which  sprang  up  about  them.  "I've  been 
watching  your  face,  and  I  know  you  like  him. 
I  'm  so  glad,  for  he  is  one  of  my  favorite  tenors." 

"  You  have  an  unfair  advantage  of  me,"  he 
answered  a  little  sadly.  "  I  shall  have  to  assume 
a  look  of  stolid  unconcern.  What  comes  next?  " 

"A  suite  by  MacCunn." 

"  I  don't  know  him." 

"  He  is  a  new  man  on  the  programmes,  and  I 
don't  know  these  songs  at  all.  He  is  sure  to  be 
interesting,  though,  and  with  such  a  voice  I 
could  enjoy  even  Claribel,"  Elinor  answered. 

Heaton  smiled  at  her  enthusiasm. 

"  I  had  a  friend,"  he  remarked ;  "  who  went  to 
sleep  and  snored  audibly  in  '  Die  Meistersinger.' 
It  is  n't  safe  to  predict  what  one  will  enjoy. 
There  is  one  thing  I  like  about  this  man ;  he 
pronounces  his  words  clearly  enough  so  that  I 
don't  need  a  libretto.  That  makes  a  difference 
to  me,  nowadays,"  he  added,  as  a  slight  sensa- 
tion around  him  warned  him  that  the  singer  had 
come  forward  once  more. 

With  barely  an  introductory  chord,  he  began 
to  sing,  and  both  Heaton  and  Elinor  started 
200 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

into  quick  attention  at  the  dainty  little  song 
which  followed.  Changing  from  key  to  key, 
varying  its  time  and  its  rhythm,  it  was  impossible 
to  separate  the  words  and  the  melody,  so  closely 
were  they  blended.  Softly  and  sadly  the  words 
fell  on  their  ears,  and  all  at  once  Heaton  stirred 
uneasily. 

"  That  the  gloomy  form  of  a  cruel  fate 
Passed  scathless  through  the  guard, 
And  shadowed  all  the  orient  sky, 
And  smote  the  spring  with  a  bitter  cry." 

It  was  like  the  echo  of  his  own  thoughts, 
which  had  been  busy,  during  all  the  early  part 
of  the  programme,  with  the  barrier  which  had 
risen  between  Elinor  and  himself. 

"  I  prayed  in  tears,  '  O,  my  Love,  remain, 
My  Love,  —  my  Life,  my  Light ! ' 
Through  tears  she  said,  '  I  will  come  again 
When  again  the  skies  are  bright.' " 

He  moved  impatiently,  and  drew  his  hand 
across  his  mustache.  He  wondered  what  was 
the  use  of  singing  such  stuff.  In  spite  of  his 
expressive  voice,  the  fellow  could  have  no 
notion  of  what  it  really  meant.  It  was  all  train- 
ing, that  was  all.  He  was  foolish  to  have  it 
affect  him  so. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  it  would  be  good  ? " 
Elinor's  voice  said  in  his  ear,  at  the  end  of 
the  next  number.  "  It  is  so  unusual,  and  so 
powerful." 

201 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

What  did  she  know  about  it?  But  he  steadied 
himself  to  listen  again,  determined  to  hold  him- 
self aloof  from  the  spell  the  singer  was  throwing 
about  him. 

After  the  quiet  happiness  of  the  second  num- 
ber, he  was  little  prepared  for  the  passionate 
outburst  that  followed.  It  was  as  if  the  poet 
and  composer  had  looked  deep  into  his  heart  of 
hearts  and  had  written  it  all  down,  all  the  dis- 
appointment and  unrest,  all  the  throbbing  pas- 
sion of  the  man,  and  now  he  must  sit  there, 
motionless  and  calm,  with  Elinor  at  his  side,  and 
listen  to  it,  and  make  no  sign  that  he  was  writh- 
ing with  the  pain  of  it  all. 

"  I  cry  over  lands  and  the  sea, 
'  Slow  the  hours  pass  on,' 
The  hours  that  divide  me  from  thee. 
Will  they  never  be  gone  ? 
O  pitiful  Fates,  let  the  night 
To  the  day  give  place, 
And  the  sun  shine  forth  with  the  light 
Of  my  Love's  dear  face." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  hard,  and  shut  his 
teeth  together  to  steady  his  lips,  while  his  fin- 
gers clutched  the  useless  programme  which  the 
usher  had  thrust  into  his  hand.  He  forced  him- 
self to  think  of  something  else,  of  anything 
which  could  break  the  strain.  He  tried  to 
fancy  just  how  sleek  and  smiling  the  singer 
probably  looked,  how  well  his  coat  fitted  him. 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

It  was  of  no  use.  The  haunting,  plaintive 
melody  was  all  about  him,  and  he  was  powerless 
to  disregard  it. 

Then  he  had  a  moment's  respite.  The  motive 
changed,  and  the  pleading,  restless  theme  died 
away,  to  be  followed  by  a  strain  of  utter  sadness 
which  held  the  audience  spellbound,  yet  had  no 
power  over  him.  He  breathed  freer.  The  next 
moment,  the  words  forced  themselves  upon  his 
attention  again,  relentless  and  piercing :  — 

"  In  vain  my  strained  sight 
Doth  search  a  ray  of  light, 
And  now  I  sit  in  gloom  appalling, 
With  lessening  hope  for  comfort  calling, 
While  on  my  heart  despair  is  falling 
Like  a  winter's  night." 

It  was  like  the  requiem  of  his  hopes.  He  felt 
as  if  Elinor  were  slipping  away  from  him,  out 
into  the  measureless,  unbroken  dark,  and  he  were 
powerless  to  grasp  her.  He  heard  nothing  of 
the  outburst  of  jubilant  happiness  that  followed. 
White  to  the  lips  and  with  quivering  nerves,  he 
sat  motionless,  trying  to  conceal  the  pain  which 
was  overpowering  him.  It  was  cruel,  cruel  to 
bring  him  here  to  have  his  thoughts  laid  bare  in 
any  such  way  as  this.  He  was  roused  by  hear- 
ing his  sister's  laughing  voice. 

"  Come,  Tom,  are  you  in  a  trance  ?  I  think  it 
is  time  we  were  moving." 

Elinor's  face  was  rapt  with  her  enjoyment. 
203 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Was  n't  it  wonderful?  "  she  said.  "  I  never 
heard  him  sing  better." 

Heaton's  lip  curved. 

"  His  Schumann  was  good ;  but  I  did  n't  see 
anything  wonderful  in  that  last  suite,"  he  said 
coldly.  "  It  seemed  to  me  sentimental  and  over- 
strained ;  but  perhaps  it  did  n't  suit  my  mood, 
to-day." 

But  he  turned  away  his  face  to  escape  her 
disappointed  eyes. 


204 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

AT  last  it  was  done.  The  holidays  had  come 
and  gone,  and  Easter  was  close  ^t  hand.  All 
through  the  long  winter,  Heaton  had  worked  on 
amid  alternations  of  gloomy  despair  and  fierce 
hope.  The  last  light  of  a  stormy  March  day 
was  fading  from  his  room  as  he  wrote  the 
final  words.  Then  he  bowed  his  head  on  his 
hands  and  sat  motionless,  how  long  he  never 
knew. 

At  length  he  started  up  again,  smoothed  the 
pile  of  manuscript  on  the  table  before  him,  and 
locked  it  away  in  a  drawer,  safe  from  prying  eyes. 
He  let  it  lie  there  for  a  month.  Now  that  the 
strain  of  writing  it  was  over,  he  distrusted  his 
efforts.  His  sense  of  the  ridiculous  was  begin- 
ning to  assert  itself  once  more,  and  he  almost 
feared  to  read  over  what  he  had  written,  lest  he 
should  find  it  beneath  contempt. 

Night  after  night,  he  resolved  to  take  it  out 
and  read  it,  before  another  day  was  ended ; 
night  after  night,  he  went  to  bed,  leaving  it  still 
untouched.  Unknown  to  himself,  he  was  ex- 
hausted by  the  long  task,  and  physically  and 
205 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

mentally  unable  to  judge  of  the  quality  of  his 
work.  He  was  content  to  drift  on  from  hour 
to  hour,  enjoying  his  old  quiet  life  by  the  fire- 
side. He  had  not  seen  Elinor  since  the  book 
was  completed ;  and,  for  the  time  being,  he  had 
almost  ceased  to  think  of  her.  It  was  a  relief  to 
forget  her,  for  a  while ;  but  this  could  not  last. 
The  old  struggle  and  the  old  hope  were  bound 
to  reassert  themselves. 

Elinor  came  to  dinner,  one  day  in  late  April. 
She  had  never  seemed  brighter  nor  more 
attractive  to  them  all.  The  past  winter  appeared 
to  have  ripened  her  character  from  a  girl  to  that 
of  a  woman,  and  her  beauty  was  keeping  pace 
with  it.  Mr.  Emerson  and  his  wife  felt  the 
change  as  well  as  Heaton,  and,  like  him,  they 
were  at  a  loss  to  understand  it.  It  was  still 
early  when  she  went  away ;  and  Heaton,  after 
lingering  irresolutely  in  the  hall  for  a  moment, 
went  slowly  up  to  his  room  and  unlocked  the 
drawer  where  his  manuscript  lay. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  he  finished 
reading.  Even  then,  he  made  no  motion  to 
rise  from  the  table.  As  if  the  story  had 
been  the  work  of  another  man,  he  had  been 
held  and  carried  along  by  its  power,  and  its 
spell  was  still  upon  him.  It  was  crude  and 
overdrawn  in  places ;  in  places  it  rose  to  great- 
ness. All  in  all  he  told  himself  that  it  was 
good,  far  better  than  he  had  supposed.  It 
206 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

should  try  its  fate.  He  would  go  back  to  his 
old  typewriter,  make  the  best  copy  of  the  manu- 
script that  he  could,  and  then  put  it  into  his 
sister's  hands  for  the  final  revision. 

It  was  strange  that,  from  the  first,  he  had 
thought  of  no  public  save  the  publisher  who 
should  accept  it,  and  Elinor  who  should  read 
it.  It  would  have  to  come  under  the  eyes  of 
others,  of  course ;  but  its  message  was  for  her 
alone.  What  mattered  the  opinion  of  any  one 
else? 

For  the  next  three  or  four  weeks,  he  worked 
unceasingly,  pruning  here,  revising  there,  always 
with  the  old  enthusiasm,  always  with  the  bright 
hope  dancing  before  him,  leading  him  on  to 
more  earnest  endeavor.  She  could  not  fail,  he 
told  himself,  to  read  between  the  lines  and 
understand  his  appeal.  Perhaps,  too,  if  it 
should  succeed,  the  little  addition  to  his  reputa- 
tion might  help  him  to  win  her.  He  did  not 
reason  about  it.  He  trusted  to  his  instinct,  which 
told  him  that  this  was  his  one  chance.  Success 
must  follow  such  long  and  persistent  effort. 
How  else  did  men  gain  their  desires?  Occa- 
sionally, in  the  intervals  of  his  toil,  he  tried  to 
bring  himself  to  feel  that,  in  spite  of  everything, 
disappointment  might  be  awaiting  him ;  but  it 
was  to  no  purpose.  He  could  only  wait  and 
work  and  hope. 

Mrs.  Emerson  had  been  out  making  calls,  one 
207 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

afternoon  in  May.  As  she  came  in  and  went  up 
to  her  room,  her  brother  met  her  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs. 

"  I  will  be  down,  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  as 
she  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass.  "  Are  you 
really  going  to  give  me  an  hour  of  your  com- 
pany again  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  My  work  is  done,  ready  to  go  into  your  hands, 
and  I  can  rest." 

Something  in  the  suppressed  exultation  ot 
his  tone  struck  her  ear. 

"What  is  it,  Tom?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  finished  my  story,"  he  repeated. 
"Come  into  my  room,  and  I  will  show  it  to  you. 
I  'm  afraid  it  will  take  you  a  good  while  to  copy 
it,  though,  for  it  is  longer  than  the  others,  a 
whole  book." 

"  At  last !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  have  tried  it,  for  I  have  been  sure  you 
could  do  something  beyond  short  stories,  and  I 
have  longed  to  have  you  attempt  it." 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said  briefly,  as  he  led  the 
way  to  his  room  and  placed  the  manuscript  in 
her  hands.  "  If  you  feel  as  if  you  could  copy 
it,  I  would  rather  have  you  do  it  than  send  it 
into  the  clutches  of  a  stranger.  There  is  no  use 
in  our  talking  over  its  merits.  I  'm  blest  with  a 
rather  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  I  am 
painfully  conscious  of  its  absurdity.  It  is 
208 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

absurd;  but  it  may  have  lucid  intervals."  He 
forced  himself  to  speak  quietly,  though  his  heart 
was  beating  fast,  as  he  put  his  work  into  his 
sister's  hands.  "  Just  copy  it,  and  say  nothing 
to  anybody,"  he  added.  "  When  it  is  done,  you 
can  send  it  down  to  Lockwood  and  Elmore,  and 
let  them  see  what  it  is  good  for.  Most  likely  it 
will  come  back  to  me  by  return  express ;  but, 
till  then,  please  don't  talk  about  it." 

With  a  word  of  congratulation,  Mrs.  Emerson 
left  him  and  hurried  away  to  her  own  room, 
eager  to  begin  her  task.  She  looked  at  her 
watch.  Two  hours  before  dinner.  Ruth  was 
busy  in  the  nursery,  taking  care  of  a  large 
family  of  dolls  who  were  passing  through  an 
epidemic  of  measles,  and  Mr.  Emerson  would 
not  be  at  home  until  late.  She  drew  a  chair  for- 
ward to  the  window  and  sat  down  to  read. 

In  her  long  experience  as  her  brother's  secre- 
tary, she  had  become  familiar  with  his  style ; 
but,  from  the  first  page  of  this  new  story,  she 
saw  that  he  had  entered  an  entirely  different 
field,  and  that  he  had  proved  himself  its  master. 
Where  had  he  learned  to  read  character  so 
acutely?  How  had  the  quiet,  self-contained 
man  in  his  narrowing  life  contrived  to  penetrate 
so  deeply  into  the  mysteries  of  human  life  and 
thought?  How,  with  a  few  swift  strokes  of  his 
pen,  had  he  thrown  his  characters  into  such 
bold  relief? 

14  209 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

For  several  chapters  she  read  on,  held  by  the 
interest  of  the  story,  yet  with  no  idea  whither 
it  was  leading  her.  The  plot  was  a  simple  one, 
only  the  old,  hackneyed  study  of  growing  love 
between  man  and  maid ;  but  invested  with  a 
new  fire  and  intensity  from  its  method  of  treat- 
ment. Where  had  he  gained  the  idea  for  this 
vain,  self-absorbed  woman,  this  grandly  heroic 
man? 

At  length  she  reached  the  crowning  chapter 
of  the  story,  when  the  man,  in  spite  of  his  love 
and  for  the  sake  of  it,  determined  to  leave  the 
woman  of  his  choice,  rather  than  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  future  career.  As  she  followed  him 
through  the  supreme  struggle,  as  she  saw  him 
again  and  again  yielding  to  the  old  temptation, 
the  old  love,  only  to  conquer  it  at  the  last  and 
say  farewell  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  she  gave 
a  low  cry  of  pain  and  let  the  loose  sheets  fall 
from  her  hands.  She  realized  it  all  now. 

For  some  moments,  she  sat  there  motionless, 
as  if  stupefied  by  her  discovery.  She  was  over- 
come with  pity  for  her  brother,  with  shame  and 
remorse  for  herself.  Stupid  and  blind  as  she 
was,  why  had  she  never  foreseen  the  danger 
which  must  inevitably  come  to  one  or  the  other 
of  them  from  their  constant  intercourse?  In- 
stead of  that,  she  had  only  helped  it  on.  She 
had  encouraged  Elinor's  visits,  and  had  done 
her  best  to  throw  her  into  the  society  of  her 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

brother.  It  was  so  plain  now  that,  in  looking 
back  over  the  past  year,  she  wondered  how  she 
could  have  been  so  unconscious  of  it  all,  so  at  a 
loss  to  explain  Heaton's  moodiness,  his  varying 
manner  towards  Elinor.  Even  then,  had  she 
realized  it,  she  might  have  done  much  to  set 
right  the  wrong.  As  it  was,  she  had  tried  to 
bring  them  into  closer  companionship ,  she  had 
even  reproached  her  brother  for  his  occasional 
sharpness.  She  knew  now  that  it  was  the  one 
relief  for  his  exhausted  endurance. 

And  Elinor?  For  the  moment,  she  hated  the 
girl.  Why  had  she  come  there  to  wreck  her 
brother's  happiness?  Could  she  not  content 
herself  to  have  Wyckoff  at  her  feet,  without 
seeking  to  show  her  power  over  Heaton? 
Then  Mrs.  Emerson's  sense  of  justice  reas- 
serted itself.  As  she  looked  back  over  the 
past,  she  could  never  remember  a  time  when 
Elinor  had  seemed  to  trifle  with  Heaton,  or  to 
treat  him  otherwise  than  she  would  have  done 
a  brother  or  an  intimate  cousin.  Women  are 
quick  to  appreciate  these  distinctions,  and 
Mrs.  Emerson  admitted  to  herself  that  Elinor 
had  been  above  reproach.  No;  the  girl  was 
blameless. 

At  first  she  determined  to  go  to  her  brother, 
to  tell  him  she  knew  his  secret  at  last,  and  to 
make  what  amends  she  could  for  her  past  neg- 
lect. Then  she  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

speak.  Heaton  was  probably  unaware  how 
much  of  himself  he  had  put  into  his  story, 
still  less  aware  that  there  was  danger  of  her 
understanding  the  source  of  his  inspiration. 
He  had  asked  her  to  say  nothing  of  the  book, 
even  to  him.  If  she  had  unwittingly  intruded 
upon  his  secret,  at  least  he  should  never  know 
it.  Of  the  future  of  his  story  she  could  feel  no 
doubt.  For  the  rest,  who  could  tell?  Elinor 
was  young  and  susceptible  to  all  sorts  of  new 
influences  ;  she  might  be  moved  by  this  appeal. 
Moreover,  Heaton  was  rich  and  would  one  day 
be  famous,  while  no  woman  could  demand  a 
truer,  manlier  husband.  Perhaps  all  would  yet 
be  well. 

Slowly  the  days  passed  away.  The  Em- 
ersons  had  gone  to  their  country  home,  where 
May  daisies  were  fading  and  the  roses  of  June 
were  showing  their  pink  petals  through  the 
vivid  green  of  the  calyx.  Over  the  household 
there  seemed  to  be  a  little  tension,  as  if  they 
were  waiting  restlessly  on  the  eve  of  some 
great  crisis.  Mr.  Emerson  was  ignorant  of  the 
existence  of  the  novel ;  Mrs.  Emerson  and 
Heaton  never  once  alluded  to  it.  It  had  been 
copied  and  sent  to  the  publishers,  who  had  ac- 
knowledged its  receipt  in  a  short,  but  courteous 
note.  Now  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wait. 

Morning  after  morning,  as  the  postman  left 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  letters,  Mrs.  Emerson  hastily  ran  them  over, 
in  search  of  one  which  should  bear  the  well- 
known  imprint.  It  came  at  last;  and,  dis- 
regarding her  other  mail,  she  seized  it  and 
hurried  away  to  find  her  brother. 

"It  has  come  !  "  she  said  breathlessly,  as  she 
entered  the  library  where  he  was  sitting. 

"  Read  it,  please." 

For  once,  Mrs.  Emerson  lost  her  wonted 
quiet,  as  she  tore  the  letter  open  and  glanced 
at  its  contents. 

"  How  good  !  Listen  !  "  And  she  read  the 
note  aloud. 

It  was  short  and  incisive,  as  a  busy  publisher's 
letters  must  be ;  but  there  was  an  underlying 
spirit  of  kindliness  which  was  far  better  than 
many  words.  For  the  rest,  it  accepted  the 
novel,  added  a  few  words  of  congratulation 
upon  such  a  brilliant  piece  of  work,  and  then 
passed  on  to  the  details  of  the  contract,  to 
which  now  they  paid  scant  heed. 

If  Mrs.  Emerson  had  expected  that  her 
brother  would  be  dazzled  by  his  success,  or 
would  make  any  demonstration  of  his  joy,  she 
was  mistaken.  He  only  drew  a  long  breath, 
rose  and  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the 
room ;  then  he  said  quietly, — 

"  It  is  settled,  then.     I  am  glad." 

"  But  hear  what  he  says,"  urged  his  sister. 
" '  It  is  a  novel  of  remarkable  promise,  and  can- 
213 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

not  fail  to  attract  attention.'  Do  you  realize 
what  that  is,  coming  from  the  publisher  him- 
self? " 

"  I  do  realize  it,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad,  Bertha, 
more  glad  than  you  can  know ;  but  even  now  it 
may  not  amount  to  anything." 

He  had  no  suspicion  that  she  was  reading  his 
inner  thought.  For  the  hour,  she  had  forgotten 
everything  but  her  brother's  brilliant  success; 
his  last  words  reminded  her  how  much  was  still 
at  stake.  She  crossed  over  to  his  side  and  laid 
her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Tom,  dear,"  she  said  earnestly ;  "  to-day  is  a 
fitting  climax  to  all  my  pride  in  you.  Remem- 
ber, whatever  comes,  even  if  you  have  the  world 
at  your  feet,  your  success  and  happiness  mean 
more  to  me  than  to  all  the  rest,  and  your  disap- 
pointment, to-day,  would  have  been  almost  as 
hard  for  me  to  bear  as  for  you." 

He  bent  down  and  rested  his  cheek  against 
her  hair. 

"  Whatever  comes,  Bertha,  I  know  you  '11  never 
fail  me." 

She  went  away  to  write  a  note  to  Elinor,  ask- 
ing her  to  come  out  to  dine  with  them,  the 
following  day. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  next  day  was  end- 
less; but  at  last  she  saw  Elinor  crossing  the 
lawn.  She  met  her  at  the  door.  The  girl  was 
looking  unusually  bright  and  happy,  she  thought. 
214 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Could  she  have  met  Mr.  Emerson  in  town,  and 
had  he  told  her  the  great  news?  Mrs.  Emer- 
son led  her  guest  to  the  library;  then,  after  a 
moment,  she  excused  herself  and  went  up-stairs 
to  her  brother's  door. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  knock. 

"  Elinor  is  here,  Tom,"  she  said,  as  she  entered. 
"  She  has  come  out  to  dinner.  Can  you  go  down 
to  entertain  her,  for  a  few  minutes?  I  have  to 
give  Mary  some  orders." 

A  moment  later,  Heaton  entered  the  room. 
As  Elinor  rose  to  meet  him,  she  was  struck  with 
the  new  light  in  his  face,  the  new  energy  and 
alertness  of  his  whole  manner. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  heard  some  good 
news  lately,"  she  said,  as  she  took  his  hand. 

"  I  have,"  he  answered  gravely,  yet  with  an 
eagerness  which  he  could  not  entirely  control. 
"  May  I  tell  you ;  or  don't  you  care  about  my 
work,  when  you  are  so  busy?" 

"  Of  course  I  always  care,"  she  replied  heartily. 
"  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  that,  I  hope,  and  I  like  to 
be  told  happy  secrets." 

"  This  can't  be  a  secret  much  longer,"  he  said, 
struck  by  the  womanly  sympathy  of  her  tone. 
How  quick  she  was  to  feel  and  share  his  happi- 
ness !  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  myself,  before  you 
heard  of  it,  outside.  The  fact  is,  I  've  a  novel 
just  accepted  by  Lockwood  and  Elmore,  and 
they  say  it  is  likely  to  prove  a  success." 
215 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Heaton,  I  am  so  glad  !  Is  it  really 
true?  How  proud  of  you  we  all  are!  "  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  joy  in  her  voice.  "  Tell 
me  all  about  it,"  she  went  on.  "  I  want  to  know 
so  many  things :  when  you  wrote  it,  and  how,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it." 

And  Heaton  told,  simply  and  frankly  as  a 
child,  only  suppressing  all  the  part  which  re- 
lated to  herself.  She  listened  intently,  making 
little  delighted  comments  from  time  to  time. 
Then,  when  at  length  he  paused,  she  said 
slowly,  — 

"  I  do  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Heaton,  and  I 
shall  always  be  so  glad  I  knew  you,  all  the 
time  you  were  writing  it.  Perhaps  even,  a  little 
bit  of  me  may  have  strayed  into  it,  without  your 
knowing  it.  I  can  hardly  wait  to  see  it.  And 
now  that  you  have  told  me  your  secret,  I  think 
I  shall  tell  you  mine,  though  I  did  n't  mean  to 
speak  of  it  yet.  I  am  very  happy,  too,  for  I  —  " 
she  faltered  a  little,  as  if  embarrassed ;  then  she 
went  on  more  steadily,  "  I  am  engaged  to  Mr. 
Wyckoff." 


216 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

JACK  must  never  know. 

Over  and  over  again  he  found  himself  repeat- 
ing these  words,  even  before  he  grasped  their 
full  meaning.  Afterwards  he  had  never  known 
just  how  he  spent  that  evening.  He  had  forced 
himself  to  appear  as  usual,  to  laugh  and  talk  with 
the  rest ;  but,  underneath  it  all,  he  had  constantly 
recurred  to  the  one  thought:  Jack  must  never 
know. 

Swiftly  and  unexpectedly  the  blow  had  fallen. 
He  had  never  thought  of  Jack.  Strange  to  say, 
it  hurt  him  much  more  than  if  it  had  been  another 
man ;  and  yet  he  felt  no  bitterness  towards  his 
cousin.  Jack  had  always  proved  his  most  loyal 
friend ;  now  was  his  own  time  to  return  that 
loyalty.  For  the  sake  of  all  that  his  cousin  had 
been  to  him,  he  must  hide  his  trouble  under  a 
smiling  face,  and  go  forward  and  make  no  sign. 

We  rarely  realize  the  intensity  of  our  hopes 
until,  of  a  sudden,  their  futility  is  proved.  It 
seems  quite  possible  to  bear  the  disappointment, 
until  the  disappointment  comes.  Then  we  find 
that  we  have  never  really  admitted  the  possibil- 
217 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ity  of  anything  but  success,  and  the  blow  falls 
heavily,  its  crushing  weight  all  unbroken. 

After  any  mental  crisis,  there  comes  the  inter- 
val of  quiet  exhaustion  and  of  passive  endur- 
ance. Then  follows  the  time  of  reconstruction. 
To  go  from  hope  to  hopelessness  is  one  thing ; 
to  accept  that  hopelessness  and  mould  it  to  the 
fashion  of  our  future  hopes  is  quite  another 
matter. 

When  the  first  sharp  pain  was  over,  then 
came  Heaton's  hardest  time.  He  knew  that  he 
loved  Elinor  as  tenderly  as  ever;  but  that,  in 
loyalty  to  Jack,  he  must  try  to  kill  out  his  love. 
It  was  a  hard  task,  for  it  was  like  trying  to  tear 
away  the  very  roots  of  his  manhood.  For  more 
than  a  year,  this  love  had  been  the  central  point, 
the  focus  of  his  life,  and  it  would  have  been 
almost  as  easy  to  destroy  life  itself. 

The  time  had  come  for  his  manhood  to  assert 
itself,  and  he  showed  himself  strong  now.  If 
he  had  been  weak  before,  in  allowing  himself  to 
drift  into  a  relation  which  his  destiny  had  for- 
bidden him  to  enjoy,  the  temptation  had  come 
so  slowly  and  gradually  that  he  had  not  seen 
whither  he  was  going,  until  the  mischief  was 
done.  Now  that  his  dream  was  ended,  he 
roused  himself  to  the  new  duty  and  steadfastly 
set  his  face  towards  the  future,  with  a  quiet 
endurance  which  left  little  mark  upon  his  outer 
life. 

218 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

It  had  been  hard  for  Mrs.  Emerson  to  lay 
aside  her  own  little  dream,  and  to  congratulate 
Elinor  upon  her  engagement.  Yet  she  admitted 
to  herself  that  no  two  people  could  be  better 
suited  to  each  other  than  were  Jack  and  Elinor ; 
that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  brother,  she  would 
have  rejoiced  to  know  they  had  come  together. 
Often  as  she  longed  to  do  so,  she  never  once 
hinted  to  Heaton  that  she  had  known  of  his 
love.  He  gave  her  no  opportunity  for  it ;  and, 
as  the  days  went  on,  she  resolved  that  it  was 
better  to  keep  the  silence  unbroken. 

The  summer  seemed  unending  to  Heaton, 
that  year.  Elinor  came  out  often  in  June, 
sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  Jack,  but 
always  radiant  with  her  new  happiness,  always 
full  of  her  new  plans.  She  was  to  spend  the 
summer  with  her  aunt;  then,  in  the  early  fall, 
she  was  to  go  abroad  for  two  or  three  years  of 
study.  Jack  had  been  too  generous  in  his  love 
to  ask  her  to  give  up  her  work  for  his  sake. 
He  was  secure  in  his  joy,  and  he  could  afford  to 
wait. 

Heaton  always  saw  her  when  she  came.  There 
was  no  change  in  his  outward  manner  to  her, 
save  for  a  new  gentleness  which  had  replaced 
his  old  moods  of  sharpness.  He  sat,  by  the 
hour,  listening  to  the  details  of  her  doings  and 
her  future  plans,  from  time  to  time  throwing  in 
a  word  of  comment  or  suggestion,  as  she  turned 
219 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

to  him  for  sympathy.  She  had  given  him  her 
friendship  frankly  and  sincerely,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  accept  so  much  and  ask  for  no  more. 
It  hurt  him  sharply  now;  but  the  time  might 
come  when  he  would  be  grateful  for  it,  glad 
that  he  had  not  rejected  it.  Accordingly,  he 
forced  himself  to  meet  her  in  exactly  the  old 
way.  She  was  conscious  of  no  change  in  him ; 
but  often,  after  she  had  gone  away,  he  went  to 
his  room,  threw  himself  down  on  the  familiar 
couch,  and,  burying  his  face  in  the  pillows, 
fought  the  battle  once  more,  bitterly  and  long, 
but  always  bravely  in  the  end. 

Then  came  the  weary  days  of  correcting 
proof,  when  his  sister  went  over  the  novel  with 
him,  line  by  line,  letter  by  letter,  both  of  them 
realizing  all  its  hidden  meaning,  neither  of 
them  giving  a  sign  of  the  pain  it  was  causing 
them.  What  a  mockery  it  seemed,  now  that  the 
fire  had  burnt  itself  out,  and  left  only  dull, 
gray  ashes  !  They  grew  to  hate  the  story,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  kindly,  hopeful  letters  from  the 
publishers,  they  rejoiced  when  they  could  turn 
away  from  their  completed  task  and  try  to 
forget  it. 

They  spent  August  at  the  Shoals,  that  year. 
The  Grays  had  written  to  offer  them  their 
cottage ;  but,  to  Mr.  Emerson's  surprise,  neither 
his  wife  nor  Heaton  felt  any  wish  to  return  to 
the  lake,  so  they  went  to  Appledore  instead. 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Heaton's  fame  had  gone  before  him,  for  already 
his  novel  was  widely  heralded,  and  he  found 
himself  everywhere  received  with  a  cordial 
admiration  which,  at  any  other  time,  must  have 
been  pleasant  to  him. 

Now,  however,  he  dreaded  the  very  mention 
of  his  book,  for  a  new  fear  had  come  to  him. 
What  if,  as  he  once  had  hoped,  Elinor  should 
read  all  he  had  written  there,  recognize  the 
attempted  portrait  of  herself,  and  understand  his 
love?  She  must  either  receive  it  with  indigna- 
tion, or  laugh  him  to  scorn  that  he  had  been  so 
dull,  so  absorbed  in  himself  as  not  to  see  whither 
she  was  so  plainly  tending.  As  he  had  listened 
to  it,  that  last  time,  he  had  studied  it  closely,  to 
see  whether  he  only  imagined  its  fervor.  It 
was  all  alive  and  on  fire  with  his  love,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  no  true  woman  could  be 
unconscious  of  his  meaning.  He  writhed  in 
spirit,  as  he  fancied  the  little  contemptuous 
smile  with  which  she  would  toss  aside  the 
book. 

At  last  it  came.  One  day  in  early  October, 
the  English  and  American  papers  announced  the 
publication  of  "  The  Unfolded  Roll  of  Fate  "  by 
Thomas  Murray  Heaton;  and  the  busy  world 
paused  long  enough  to  take  up  and  read  the 
promised  novel.  From  the  first,  its  success 
was  assured,  and  for  weeks  Mrs.  Emerson  was 
kept  busy,  replying  to  the  congratulations  of 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  countless  friends  who  suddenly  discovered 
that  they  always  had  predicted  a  brilliant  future 
for  the  author.  Heaton  smiled  quietly  over 
the  notes,  listened  to  the  press  notices  with 
open  scorn,  and  took  his  new  honors  so  calmly 
as  to  surprise  every  one  but  his  sister,  who  knew 
that  he  was  waiting  to  hear  from  Elinor,  before 
he  could  rest. 

He  had  promised  to  send  her  a  copy  of  the 
book,  as  soon  as  it  should  be  in  his  hands ;  and, 
much  as  he  shrank  from  her  criticism,  he  had 
faithfully  kept  his  word.  Day  by  day,  his 
thoughts  followed  the  little  package  across  the 
Atlantic  and  on  to  Berlin,  where  she  was  to 
spend  the  winter  studying  with  an  old  colleague 
of  Arturo.  He  had  allowed  so  many  days  for 
the  book  to  reach  her,  so  many  for  her  to  read 
it,  —  he  could  fancy  just  how  she  would  cut  the 
string,  tear  away  the  paper,  and  turn  over  the 
leaves  to  read  a  line  here  and  there,  before 
settling  down  to  the  opening  chapter,  —  and  so 
many  more  before  her  answer  could  reach  him. 
The  time  had  not  nearly  passed,  when  Mrs. 
Emerson  came  into  the  library,  one  morning, 
with  some  letters  in  her  hand. 

"  Such  a  good  mail !  "  she  said.  "  Here  's  a 
letter  from  Elinor." 

"  From  Miss  Tiemann  ?  "  His  color  came  and 
went  quickly. 

"  Yes,  a  long  one.  Let  me  see  what  she 
222 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

says."  And  she  tore  the  envelope  open  and 
glanced  at  the  closely-written  pages.  "  It 's  all 
about  her  music  and  her  voyage  over.  I  '11  read 
it  to  you  as  soon  as  I  can  make  it  all  out.  Oh, 
here  is  a  letter  from  her  to  you,"  she  added. 
"Shall  I  read  it  first?" 

"  Please  do,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"My  DEAR  MR.  HEATON, — 

"  Your  book  is  here ;  it  came 

just  as  I  was  finishing  my  letter  to  Bertha,  and  I  left 
everything,  to  read  it  at  once.  It  is  so  late  now  that  I 
must  hurry  to  catch  the  mail  for  the  next  steamer ; 
but  I  have  just  finished  reading  it,  and  I  promised  to 
tell  you  what  I  thought  of  it. 

"  It  is  very  different  from  any  of  your  other  work  and 
far  beyond  anything  else  you  have  ever  done,  stronger 
and  better  sustained,  and  ever  so  much  more  original  in 
its  treatment.  Did  n't  I  always  say  you  could  write  a 
good  novel  ?  Your  dialogue  is  capital,  and  you  have  n't 
written  a  page  where  the  interest  drags ;  but  of  course 
everything  centres  in  your  two  characters.  Where 
did  you  get  your  ideas  for  them?  They  both  are  very 
much  alive.  I  can't  quite  read  the  woman,  but  she 
seems  to  me  detestably  selfish.  The  man  is  grand ; 
he  reminds  me  a  little  of  Jack. 

"  Of  course,  this  is  only  hasty  criticism.  I  shall 
write  you  again  by  the  next  steamer,  after  I  have  had 
time  to  read  the  book  more  carefully.  I  am  too  ex- 
cited now  to  write  clearly,  for  the  end  of  your  story 
has  quite  demoralized  me.  I  don't  often  cry  over  a 
223 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

book ;  but  this  was  too  much  for  me.     That  stupid, 
stupid  girl !     Why  could  n't  she  know  ? 
"  Cordially  yours, 

"  ELINOR  TIEMANN." 

His  efforts  had  been  crowned  with  success; 
but  not  the  success  for  which  he  had  striven 
and  longed.  His  secret  was  still  his  own. 


224 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

"  AND  how  do  I  really  look,  Jack?  " 

"  Altogether  charming,  madame.  Do  you 
begin  to  feel  the  spasms  of  stage-fright?" 

"  Hush !  "  she  commanded.  "  This  is  even 
worse  than  Berlin.  There  were  n't  a  dozen 
people  there  that  I  knew,  and  here  there  are  so 
many.  I  only  hope  I  sha'n't  happen  to  look  at 
any  of  them.  I  know  I  should  break  down,  if  I 
were  to  meet  Arturo's  gaze." 

"  Look  up  at  the  chandelier  over  the  stage, 
then,"  counselled  her  husband.  "  It  will  give 
you  just  the  expression  that  ought  to  go  with 
some  of  your  Priestess  solos.  But  do  you 
honestly  feel  shaky?  Can't  you  have  something 
to  steady  you?" 

"  No ;  I  shall  be  all  right,  as  soon  as  I  hear 
the  orchestra.  How  strange  it  seems !  "  She 
fanned  herself  nervously. 

"  You  are  sure  you  're  all  here  ?  "  asked  her 
husband  anxiously.  "  Score  and  cloak  and  all  ? 
You  want  to  be  sure  about  the  cloak,  for  that 
stage  is  horribly  draughty.  I  remember  it  of 
old,  when  I  was  only  a  chorus  tenor,  not  the 
husband  of  the  star." 

15  225 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  that  I'm  not  a  setting 
star.  This  is  my  first  real  test,  for,  after  all, 
Berlin  did  n't  seem  to  me  to  count  for  half  so 
much.  There  I  was  only  somebody's  pupil; 
here  I  must  stand  on  my  own  merits." 

"And  your  cloak?  I'll  risk  the  merits;  but 
you  must  n't  take  cold." 

"  Bettina  has  it.     Is  n't  it  all  strange,  Jack?  " 

"  As  to  which?" 

"  That  my  cherished  dream  should  come  true, 
and  at  last  I  should  be  singing  here  in  New 
York;  strangest  of  all  that  it  should  be  with 
this  very  chorus  where  we  used  to  sing  to- 
gether." 

"  I  wish  that  the  '  Elijah '  had  come  first,"  her 
husband  said,  while  he  paced  restlessly  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  why?  This  is  so  much  more  of  a 
part.  '  Arminius  '  is  my  best  work." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  only  '  Elijah  '  was  our  first  ora- 
torio together,  little  woman.  I  'd  have  liked 
your  debut  to  have  been  in  that,  and  leave  this 
over  till  Thursday  night." 

She  smiled  up  into  his  happy,  handsome 
face. 

"  What  a  sentimental  boy  you  are,  Jack  !  At 
least,  the  fiery  horses  can't  drag  us  apart  now." 

"  I  wish  we  had  some  of  their  caloric  here, 
to  toast  you  up  a  little,"  he  answered,  as  he 
226 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

took  her  hands  into  his.  "  This  dressing-room 
is  no  place  for  you.  I  wonder  if  that  confounded 
chorus  will  never  get  fixed." 

Suddenly  she  started  up. 

"  Listen,  Jack !     There  go  the  violins  !  " 

"And,  by  Jove,  here  's  Edwin  !  I  thought  he 
would  n't  miss  coming  in  to  see  you,  after  the 
note  I  sent  him." 

Three  years  and  more  had  passed  away  since 
Elinor  had  left  New  York;  and  now  at  last, 
as  she  had  said,  her  dream  had  come  true.  She 
was  to  make  her  first  public  appearance  in 
America  upon  the  same  stage  and  with  the 
same  chorus  where  she  and  her  husband  had 
sung  together,  in  the  early  days  of  their  ac- 
quaintance. The  years  had  ripened  the  girl 
into  the  perfection  of  womanly  beauty,  until 
now,  at  twenty-seven,  Elinor  Wyckoff  had  more 
than  fulfilled  the  promise  of  her  maidenhood. 

For  two  years,  she  had  worked  on  alone  in 
the  busy  solitude  of  the  great  foreign  city,  man- 
fully fighting  her  way  onward  through  drudgery 
and  discouragement,  cheered  and  strengthened 
by  Jack's  frequent  letters,  his  unswerving  faith 
in  her  future,  and  his  generous  patience  in 
waiting  until  her  work  was  done.  From  the 
time  of  her  going  abroad,  there  had  seemed  to 
be  little  question  of  her  final  success.  Even 
Arturo  had  said  that  her  voice  and  method 
would  be  perfect ;  and  at  length  she  was  gain- 
227 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

ing  something  of  that  sympathetic  quality  which 
she  had  always  lacked  before.  Perhaps  it  was 
coming  with  her  natural  growth  towards  wo- 
manhood ;  perhaps  it  came  from  the  love  that 
had  filled  her  soul  with  a  happiness  of  which  she 
had  never  dreamed  till  then. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year,  Wyckoff  could 
wait  no  longer. 

"  Come  home  for  the  summer,"  he  wrote. 
"  Then,  if  you  really  must  go  back,  we  will  be 
married  in  September,  and  I  '11  go  over  and 
spend  the  year  with  you.  My  practice  can 
stand  being  left ;  and,  even  if  it  could  n't,  better 
lose  a  little,  now  and  then,  than  have  to  spend 
the  best  years  of  my  life  away  from  you.  Come 
home,  dear,  and  let  me  go  back  with  you." 

And  Elinor  came. 

The  summer  had  been  too  short  for  the 
accomplishment  of  her  many  plans ;  but,  before 
they  sailed  from  New  York,  she  and  Jack  spent 
a  few  days  with  the  Emersons.  Their  pleasant 
home  seemed  quite  unchanged  to  her,  as  she 
sat  by  the  familiar  fire,  the  night  of  her  arrival. 
Mrs.  Emerson  had  grown  a  little  more  matronly, 
as  befitted  the  mother  of  a  Harvard  junior, 
and  Ruth  had  left  her  babyhood  far  behind. 
Mr.  Emerson  was  quite  his  old  self,  and  Heaton 
greeted  her  with  the  brotherly  cordiality  which 
she  had  known  so  well  in  former  days.  He  too 
appeared  unchanged ;  his  hair  was  a  little  whiter, 
228 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

perhaps,  and  he  was  more  quiet;  but  that  was 
all. 

Of  his  work  he  inclined  to  say  but  little,  and 
it  was  not  until  she  was  alone  with  Mrs.  Emer- 
son, after  dinner,  that  Elinor  learned  the  glory 
which  had  come  to  her  old  friend.  "  The  Un- 
folded Roll  of  Fate  "  had  made  his  reputation ; 
but  the  novel  that  followed  it  had  won  him  a 
place  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  such  as  is 
granted  to  but  few  writers.  The  reading  world 
was  ready  to  lie  at  his  feet ;  but  he  turned  aside 
and  went  quietly  on  his  way,  unspoiled  by 
flattery  and  adulation,  as  he  had  been  by  wait- 
ing and  by  bitter  disappointment.  There  had 
been  no  constraint  in  his  meeting  with  Elinor. 
On  her  side,  there  could  be  none ;  and  he  had 
forced  himself  to  put  away  the  memory  of  the 
last  year  they  had  spent  together,  and  to  give 
her  the  blithe  greeting  which  befitted  her  bride- 
hood. 

Then  the  Wyckoffs  had  sailed  away  again, 
and,  for  one  more  year,  Elinor  had  worked  on 
towards  the  fulfilment  of  all  her  hopes.  But  now 
the  years  of  study  were  ended,  and  at  length 
she  was  to  taste  the  sweetness  of  success.  There 
had  been  one  small  recital  in  Berlin  when  a 
few  critics  had  gone  away  enthusiastic  over  the 
young  American;  there  had  been  one  concert 
when  the  opera  house  had  rung  with  wild 
applause.  Then  she  and  her  proud  husband 
229 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

had  sailed  for  America.  New  York  was  to  have 
a  festival  of  oratorio ;  and  there,  in  her  favorite 
part  of  the  Priestess  in  "  Arminius,"  Elinor  was  to 
make  her  American  de"but,  through  the  influence 
of  Arturo,  who  had  never  lost  interest  in  his 
old-time  pupil. 

It  had  seemed  so  strange  to  her  to  be  wait- 
ing in  the  state  dressing-room,  that  night,  while 
her  old  friends  of  the  chorus  slowly  filed  on  to 
the  stage  and  took  their  seats,  that  she  was 
relieved  when  Mr.  Emerson's  genial  face  ap- 
peared at  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in  and  make  my  best  bow?" 
he  asked,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Then  he 
fell  back  and  struck  an  attitude  of  awe.  "  Ye 
immortal  gods  and  the  nine  muses !  Can  this 
resplendent  mortal  be  my  little  Cousin  Elinor?" 

"  The  very  one,"  she  answered,  holding  out 
her  hand.  "  I  'm  still  the  same  old  girl,  in  spite 
of.  my  fine  feathers,  and  I  am  delighted  to  see 
my  dear  old  cousin." 

"  And  your  dear  old  cousin  returns  the  com- 
pliment," he  responded,  as  he  stared  approv- 
ingly at  her  trailing  white  silk  gown  and  the 
close  circlet  of  diamonds  that  blazed  at  her 
throat.  "  You  are  certainly  good  to  look  at, 
Elinor;  and  they  say  you  are  good  to  hear. 
Best  of  all,  I  can't  see  why  you  are  n't  the  same 
Elinor,  in  spite  of  all  the  nonsensical  raving 
about  you  in  the  papers." 
230 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

She  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  the  same  Elinor  Wyckoff,  though 
they  did  try  to  have  me  take  an  Italian  name. 
I  only  hope  I  can  sing  so  that  I  sha'n't  disgrace 
you  all,  as  I  did  at  your  house,  long  ago.  I 
must  go  on,  in  a  minute ;  but  I  shall  see  you 
again.  Did  you  get  the  box  I  ordered  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Bertha  and  Tom  are  there  now,  with 
the  Mackies;  but  I  wanted  to  see  you  first. 
You  're  both  of  you  coming  to  lunch,  to-morrow, 
Bertha  says." 

"  Jack  thinks  he  must  keep  a  business  engage- 
ment ;  but  I  shall  be  there.  Tell  Bertha  I  shall 
look  for  her  in  the  box,"  she  added,  as  a  knock 
on  the  dressing-room  door  warned  her  that  her 
hour  had  come. 

She  hurriedly  took  leave  of  Mr.  Emerson. 
Then,  as  he  left  them  alone,  she  turned  impul- 
sively to  her  husband. 

"  I  am  going  on  now,  Jack,"  she  said,  looking 
up  into  his  eyes.  "  I  will  do  the  best  that  is  in 
me,  for  your  sake." 

Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  walked  slowly  across 
the  front  of  the  stage  and  took  her  seat,  under 
the  gaze  of  hundreds  of  opera  glasses  and  thou- 
sands of  pairs  of  human  eyes.  She  was  dimly 
conscious  of  the  close  ranks  of  the  chorus  back 
of  her,  of  the  great  sea  of  faces  before  her.  She 
knew  that  the  tenor  had  bent  forward  to  make 
231 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

some  whispered  comment  in  her  ear,  and  she 
tried  to  answer  him  coherently.  For  a  moment, 
everything  turned  dark  before  her  eyes,  while 
she  heard  the  loud,  abrupt  chords  of  the  orches- 
tra and  the  first  low  tones  of  the  chorus.  The 
familiar  strains  brought  back  something  of  her 
self-control,  and  she  turned  a  little  in  her  chair. 
As  she  did  so,  her  glance  fell  upon  her  husband, 
who  stood  at  the  side  of  the  stage,  watching  her 
intently.  Their  eyes  met,  and  his  smile  gave  her 
courage. 

The  chorus  was  singing  gloriously,  and  the 
orchestra  seemed  inspired.  The  music,  rugged 
as  the  warring  tribes  themselves,  was  throwing 
its  spell  over  her  and  filling  her  whole  being. 
The  crowded  hall,  and  New  York,  and  the 
modern  world  had  fled  from  her,  and  she  stood, 
the  Priestess  in  the  sacred  grove,  listening  to  the 
mighty  song  of  the  free-born  sons  of  Wodan, 
watching  the  ruthless  on-coming  of  the  Roman 
legion.  She  knew  that  the  moment  for  her  first 
solo  was  at  hand ;  but  she  had  ceased  to  dread 
it. 

As  she  rose,  she  gave  one  quick  glance  towards 
the  middle  box,  where  her  friends  sat  waiting  to 
hear  her  voice.  She  could  see  them  plainly,  her 
aunt  and  uncle  with  the  Emersons  in  the  fore- 
ground, Heaton  a  little  farther  back.  He  was 
bending  forward  in  his  chair,  with  his  face 
turned  expectantly  towards  the  stage,  and  some- 
232 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

thing  in  the  intensity  of  his  expression  caught 
and  held  her  wandering  gaze.  During  the  long 
introduction,  she  stood  motionless;  then,  with 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  him,  she  began  to 
sing,— 

"  Through  the  grove  a  sound  of  warning 
Stirs  the  mystic  boughs." 

Low  and  monotonous  as  were  the  notes,  a 
quick  thrill  of  pleasure  passed  throughout  the 
audience.  Rich  and  full  and  velvet-like,  the 
voice  held  them  under  its  sway.  Then  it  rose 
to  a  clearer,  higher  note, — 

"  Peace  on  you,  oh,  faithful  sons  of  Wodan ; 
Give  your  mourning  people  peace, 
Lightning-crowned  God ! 
Wodan,  humbly  we  adore  thee, 
We  wait  for  a  sign  from  thee, 
I,  thy  Priestess,  call  thee ! " 

Not  a  motion  broke  the  utter  stillness  of  the 
vast  audience,  as  the  voice,  prayerful,  powerful, 
reverent,  died  away,  and  the  chorus,  almost  in 
whispers,  took  up  the  theme ;  but  Elinor's  eyes 
were  still  upon  Heaton,  and  she  had  seen  his 
hands  stiffen  as  they  clutched  his  programme, 
his  chest  rise  and  fall  sharply  while  he  listened 
to  her  prayer. 

Jack  seized  her  hand,  as  she  left  the  stage  for 
the  intermission  which  followed  the  second  part 
of  the  oratorio. 

233 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  By  Jove,  Elinor,  you  never  did  anything  to 
equal  that  consecration  scene  !  "  he  exclaimed 
breathlessly.  "  Your  aria  was  fine ;  but  the 
prayer  was  beyond  it  all." 

"  Was  it  good  ?  "  she  asked,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  while  Bettina  wrapped  her  cloak  around 
her. 

"  Good  !     Did  n't  you  hear  them?  " 

"N-no;  not  really.  I  was  watching  Tom 
Heaton,  and  wondering  what  he  thought  of  it." 

"  Poor  old  Tom  !  I  wish  he  could  see  you,  to- 
night, Elinor."  And  Jack's  face  softened,  as  it 
always  did  at  the  mention  of  his  cousin. 

"  He  can  hear  me,"  she  said  a  little  wearily. 

"  That 's  true,  and  it  counts  for  more,  to-night, 
than  ever  before.  You've  scored  a  complete 
success,  Elinor ;  and  the  audience  is  all  for  you. 
I  was  afraid  at  first  that  it  was  going  to  be  cold ; 
but  you  can  do  whatever  you  like  with  it  now." 

She  turned  to  look  at  him  as  he  tramped  up 
and  down  the  little  room,  his  face  beaming  with 
his  pride  in  her. 

"If  you  are  only  satisfied,  Jack!  You  and 
Arturo  are  my  most  dreaded  critics.  But  wait 
till  my  Battle  Aria.  That  will  make  or  mar  my 
success." 

A  hearty  burst  of  applause  met  her  when  she 

went  out  to  take  her  place  on  the  stage  once 

more.     During  the  intermission,  there  had  been 

but  one  theme  on  everybody's  lips,  the  new  star 

234 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

that  had  swept  above  the  musical  horizon.  Critics 
were  exchanging  golden  opinions,  and  Arturo 
was  surrounded  with  newspaper  men,  all  clamor- 
ing for  some  verdict  from  the  old-time  teacher 
of  Elinor  Wyckoff.  Up  in  the  middle  box 
above,  four  eager,  excited  people  were  all  talk- 
ing at  once,  while  Heaton  sat  alone  in  a  corner, 
his  head  resting  on  his  hand  and  his  lower  lip 
caught  between  his  teeth.  For  the  moment,  no 
one  thought  of  him,  and  he  was  glad  that  it  was 
so.  It  gave  him  time  to  steady  himself,  to  think 
of  the  meeting  on  the  morrow,  and  of  the  many, 
many  meetings  of  former  years. 

Motionless,  he  sat  there  during  all  the  next 
part  of  the  oratorio.  He  heard  vaguely  and  as 
in  a  dream  the  grand  bass  obligato,  the  call  to 
arms ;  but  he  never  stirred  until  Elinor's  voice 
once  more  fell  upon  his  ears.  Then  he  raised 
his  head,  held  it  higher  and  higher  as  she  passed 
from  her  broken  recitative  to  the  full  power  of 
her  great  aria, — 

"  Wodan !  Mighty  one,  Lord  of  battles ! 
From  the  sacred  recess  of  thy  shrine 
Guide  thou  the  snow-white  steeds,  the  boders  of 

vict'ry ! 
Haste,  oh,  haste  thee  to  bring  thy  children  succor !  " 

Swiftly  breathless,  imperious  yet  beseeching, 

the  voice  rang  out  till  the  air  around  him  vibrated 

with  its  throbbing  passion.     It  was  Elinor's  voice, 

the  voice  he  had  formerly  known  so  well.    Under 

235 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

its  spell,  he  forgot  his  weakness,  his  blindness, 
even ;  its  warlike  fervor  possessed  him,  and  ail- 
unconsciously  he  threw  back  his  shoulders  and 
filled  his  chest  with  the  deep,  full  breath  of  a 
strong  man  who  knew  not  the  fear  of  darkness. 
It  was  Elinor,  Elinor  Tiemann  before  him,  call- 
ing on  him  to  rise  up  and  conquer  the  Romans, 
and  the  world,  and  fate  itself.  The  very  air  was 
electric  with  the  resonance  of  her  voice,  the  dra- 
matic fire  of  her  personality.  He  could  feel  it 
thrilling  through  and  through  the  huge  audience 
before  him,  and  his  nerves  were  tingling  with  its 
power. 

"  Wodan  !  Mighty  one,  Lord  of  battles ! 
Haste,  oh  haste,  mighty  Wodan,  bring  us  succor !  " 

In  vain  the  chorus  and  the  orchestra  went 
crashing  into  the  mighty  war  song  that  fol- 
lowed. No  one  heeded  them,  and  they  could 
only  stop  short  and  join  in  the  general  tumult. 
It  came  in  waves,  rising  and  falling,  now  jarring 
the  very  walls,  now  dying  down,  only  to  swell 
out  louder  than  before,  while  the  air  was  filled 
with  fluttering  handkerchiefs  and  falling  rose- 
leaves.  The  de*but  of  Elinor  Wyckoff  was  an  as- 
sured success,  and  her  husband's  heart  throbbed 
with  pleasure  as  he  watched  her. 

But  when  the  storm  had  spent  itself,  and  the 
leader  of  the  chorus  had  once  more  raised  his 
baton,  she  turned  to  look  up  into  the  middle 
236 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

box.  Heaton  had  come  forward  into  the  light, 
and,  as  he  impatiently  drew  his  fingers  across 
his  lashes,  she  saw  upon  them  something  that 
glittered  as  sharply  as  the  diamonds  at  her  own 
throat. 


237 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

QUITE  regardless  of  the  fact  that "  Arminius"  was 
only  the  opening  concert  of  a  four-days  festival, 
the  critics  of  the  morning  papers  lavished  upon 
Elinor  Wyckoff  all  the  adjectives  of  their  own 
language  and  even  dropped  into  French  in  their 
fervor.  Late  on  the  morning  after  the  oratorio, 
she  came  into  their  private  breakfast-room,  to 
find  her  husband  in  a  sea  of  papers,  with  a  pile 
of  long  clippings  laid  ready  beside  her  plate. 
He  looked  up,  as  she  entered. 

"The  birds  are  all  piping  in  unison,  this 
morning,  madame.  There  appear  to  have 
been  neither  chorus,  nor  orchestra,  nor  any 
other  soloists,  last  night;  nothing  but  a  new 
singer,  named  Wyckoff.  Such  notices  used  to 
make  me  furious,  when  I  was  one  of  the  ignored 
chorus;  but  now  I  don't  seem  to  care." 

She  laughed,  as  she  bent  over  to  give  him 
his  good-morning  kiss ;  then  she  sat  down  and 
gathered  the  clippings  into  her  lap. 

"  How  silly  they  are,  Jack !     There  's  not  a 

word  of  real  criticism  in  them.     They  lost  their 

heads  entirely  ;  and  I  'd  rather  have  one  word 

from  Arturo  than  all  this  nonsense.     I  like  the 

238 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

part,  and  I  like  to  sing  it ;  but  that 's  no  reason 
they  should  go  mad  over  me." 

"It  was  more  maddening  than  you  know, 
Elinor,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  I  have  heard 
you  sing  often  enough ;  but  you  fairly  swept  me 
off  my  feet,  last  night.  I  Ve  seen  New  York 
audiences  go  crazy  before ;  but  I  never  saw 
anything  to  equal  this." 

"I  wonder  what  Arturo  thought,"  she  said 
musingly. 

"  He  was  parading  around  the  wings,  smiling 
his  broadest  and  polishing  the  top  of  his  head 
till  it  shone.  I  tried  to  get  him  to  go  in  to  see 
you;  but  he  said  he  would  wait  till  you  were 
rested." 

The  waiter  came  into  the  room,  just  then, 
laden  with  a  crowded  tray.  Behind  him,  a 
bell-boy  brought  a  handful  of  notes  and  a 
dozen  florist's  boxes. 

"The  lion-hunters  are  beginning  in  good 
season,"  Wyckoff  said,  as  he  took  them. 
"Isn't  this  from  Arturo,  Elinor?" 

"  Yes."  And  she  tore  it  open.  Her  face 
flushed  and  the  tears  started  into  her  eyes,  as 
she  read  the  few  lines  written  there.  "Listen, 
Jack !  It 's  like  a  benediction  on  my  work. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  WYCKOFF,  — 

"  There  was  something  very  big 
and  beautiful  in  your  singing,  last  night,  and  it  filled 
239 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

my  heart  full  of  emotion.  Your  success  was  grand ; 
and  it  pleased  me  much,  for  it  was  like  the  success 
of  one  of  my  own  children.  After  all  my  years  of 
teaching,  years  of  weary  work  when  I  have  too  often 
dismayed,  this  has  given  me  courage  to  go  on.  I 
am  not  a  young  man,  and  my  life  has  not  been  an 
easy  one ;  but  it  is  reward  enough  to  have  helped 
to  give  the  world  one  such  voice  as  yours.  In  the 
name  of  our  common  art,  I  pray  you  to  work  always 
to  the  highest  limits  of  your  soul. 

"  Your  old  master, 

"MANUEL  ARTURO." 

Wyckoff  left  the  room,  while  Elinor  was  still 
lingering  over  the  table.  He  came  hurrying  back 
again,  his  blue  eyes  shining  with  merriment. 

"  Fly,  Elinor,  while  there  is  time  !  The  clerk 
just  asked  me  to  let  him  know  when  you  were 
at  leisure,  for  five  reporters  have  been  in  the 
office,  ever  since  six  o'clock,  waiting  to  interview 
you.  I  assured  him  that  you  were  still  fast 
asleep,  and  I  gave  the  waiter  an  extra  tip,  to 
keep  him  quiet." 

"  What  a  nuisance !  " 

"  It 's  one  of  the  trials  of  greatness,  madame. 
You  will  get  used  to  it  in  time.  But  what  will 
you  do?  See  them?" 

"  Of  course  not.  What  time  is  it?  Ten  o'clock? 

Call  a  carriage,  Jack.     I  '11  go  to  Bertha's,  early 

as  it  is.    She  will  take  me  in,  I  know ;  and,  when 

I  am  safely  out  of  the  way,  you  can  call  them  in 

240 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

to  eat  up  the  crumbs  of  the  breakfast.  You  're 
to  call  for  me,  this  afternoon,  you  know." 

Wyckoff  looked  after  her  approvingly,  as  she 
went  away.  There  was  no  suggestion  of  stagi- 
ness  in  her  simple  tailor-made  gown  and  her 
blithe  manner.  In  spite  of  her  dazzling  success 
of  the  previous  night,  she  was  apparently  as  free 
from  self-consciousness  as  she  had  been  on  the 
day  of  their  first  meeting.  Proud  as  he  was  of 
her,  his  pride  was  nothing  in  comparison  with 
his  love,  and  he  found  it  good  that  she  was  still 
the  same  Elinor,  wife  as  well  as  artist.  Life 
was  kind  to  him,  he  told  himself,  and  he  put 
her  into  the  carriage  with  a  boyish  tenderness 
which  had  its  origin  in  their  little  talk  over  the 
breakfast  table  far  more  than  in  all  the  glory  of 
the  night  before. 

Mrs.  Emerson  had  not  expected  her  guest  so 
early,  and  Elinor  was  met  at  the  door  with  the 
assurance  that  she  need  not  look  for  her  hostess 
for  at  least  another  hour,  as  she  had  gone  to 
take  Mrs.  Mackie  for  a  drive. 

"  It 's  no  matter,"  she  said  gayly  to  the  maid 
who  admitted  her.  "  I  am  very  early,  I  know ; 
but  it  was  more  convenient  for  me  to  come  now. 
Take  my  hat  and  coat,  please ;  and  I  '11  go  into 
the  library  and  wait.  I  can  find  something  to 
read,  and  I  don't  mind  being  alone  for  a  while." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  as  she  entered 
the  familiar  room.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  felt 
16  241 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

dazed  by  the  ovation  she  had  received,  the  night 
before.  It  was  as  if  she  had  entered  into  a  new 
existence,  the  intensity  of  which  she  had  never 
imagined,  even  in  her  wildest  dreams.  For  the 
moment,  it  was  good  to  drop  out  of  it,  into  the 
old  life  of  three  or  four  years  ago.  How  natural 
the  room  looked !  The  very  chairs  seemed  to 
be  offering  her  a  silent  welcome  from  their 
accustomed  corners.  There  was  Mrs.  Emerson's 
seat  near  the  light,  and  Heaton's  beside  the  fire, 
with  her  own  little  one  opposite  it. 

She  moved  about  the  room,  for  a  few  minutes, 
studying  all  the  little  homelike  details  which 
she  remembered  so  distinctly.  Some  of  the 
happiest  hours  of  her  life  had  been  spent  in 
that  room.  Brilliant  as  was  the  promise  of  her 
maturity,  she  was  yet  conscious  of  a  vague, 
formless  regret  for  her  careless  girlhood.  She 
had  paused,  with  her  elbow  resting  on  the  back 
of  Heaton's  chair,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
photographs  on  the  mantel.  Jack's  latest  one 
was  there,  and  her  own,  and  an  old  one  of 
Heaton  which  she  found  it  hard  to  recognize, 
so  unlike  it  was  to  his  present  self.  She  roused 
herself  from  her  reverie,  drew  a  chair  nearer 
the  table,  and  took  up  the  newest  of  the  maga- 
zines that  lay  there. 

She  chanced  to  open  to  an  essay  which  inter- 
ested her ;  and,  within  a  few  moments,  she  had 
lost  all  thought  of  past  or  present.  So  absorbed 
242 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

was  she  that  she  did  not  hear  Heaton's  slow, 
quiet  step,  as  he  entered  the  room  and  came 
forward  to  her  side.  His  face  showed  that  he 
had  not  slept.  Dark  lines  were  under  his  eyes, 
and  his  lips  were  white  and  dry.  He  was  thinner 
than  of  old,  and  he  was  beginning  to  stoop 
slightly,  while  his  hair  showed  scarcely  anything 
of  its  old  bright  brown.  Clear  as  ever,  in  spite 
of  their  unchanging  stolidity,  his  brown  eyes 
were  turned  directly  towards  her  while  he  ad- 
vanced, with  his  hand  outstretched,  as  if  in 
greeting.  The  next  instant,  he  stopped  abruptly. 
Instead  of  the  chairback  for  which  he  was  grop- 
ing, his  fingers  lay  across  Elinor's  brow  and 
cheek. 

For  a  minute,  his  whole  frame  grew  tense, 
and  he  made  no  effort  to  take  away  his  hand. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  his  breath  burned  his 
throat,  as  he  stood  there  motionless,  waiting. 
He  could  feel  the  firm,  warm  flesh  under  his 
fingers,  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  the  sweep  of 
her  lashes  against  the  palm  of  his  hand.  For 
years,  his  only  knowledge  of  her  had  been  in 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  rustle  of  her  clothing, 
and,  now  and  then,  the  touch  of  her  cool  little 
fingers ;  yet  he  recognized  her  now  by  instinct. 
For  years,  he  had  longed  to  touch  her  face,  just 
to  freshen  the  dimming  outlines  of  the  old  pic- 
ture he  had  carried  so  long.  Now  at  last  it  lay 
under  his  hand. 

243 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Elinor ! "  he  said  huskily,  and  his  hand 
dropped  to  his  side. 

In  a  moment  it  had  ended.  Elinor  sprang 
up,  tossed  aside  her  magazine,  and  seized  his 
hand. 

"  Tom !  How  you  surprised  me  !  How  good 
to  see  you !  And  to  have  you  drop  formality 
and  call  me  by  a  cousinly  name  at  last !  " 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  rinding  you  here,"  he  said 
slowly,  as  he  moved  across  to  the  fire. 

"  And  I  nearly  made  you  fall  over  me.  Here  's 
your  chair.  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you  again,"  she  said,  laughing  a  little  in  her 
frank  pleasure.  "  I  saw  you  there,  last  night, 
and  I  sang  right  straight  at  you.  I  was  ever  so 
much  more  interested  in  watching  you  to  see 
how  you  took  it  than  in  listening  to  the  applause 
from  the  gallery." 

Heaton  still  stood  facing  her,  and  he  shivered 
like  a  man  in  a  chill.  She  saw  it,  and  she  was 
startled  by  it  and  by  the  ashy  pallor  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  you  are  ill,"  she  exclaimed  pitifully,  as 
she  drew  nearer  his  side. 

With  an  effort  he  regained  control  of  himself. 

"  No ;  only  a  little  tired  from  the  excitement 
of  last  night.  You  have  no  idea  how  I  enjoyed 
it  all.  Your  dream  has  been  fulfilled  at  last." 

Her  face  lighted  again,  as  she  heard  the  old 
friendly  note  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  it  was  more  than  I  ever  dared  hope 
244 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

for;  but  I  can't  make  it  seem  real.  I  feel 
more  as  if  I  were  in  the  dream,  to-day,  and  I 
should  wake  up  to  find  myself  once  more  study- 
ing with  Arturo  and  pouring  all  my  ambitions 
into  your  patient  ears.  Those  were  good 
old  days,  after  all."  Her  tone  was  happily 
reminiscent. 

Heaton  sat  with  his  face  turned  to  the  fire, 
and  his  slender  fingers  pulling  at  his  mustache. 
During  the  silence  that  followed,  Elinor  watched 
him  thoughtfully,  studying  the  change  which 
the  year  had  wrought  in  him. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  abruptly,  after  the 
silence  had  lasted  for  some  minutes ;  "  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  remember  a  talk  we  had,  one  day  at 
Idlewilde,  up  in  the  woods  by  the  brook,  when 
you  theorized  about  your  work." 

Under  his  mustache,  his  lips  straightened  to 
a  narrow  line. 

"  Remember  it?     Of  course.     Why?" 

"  I  appear  to  be  in  a  retrospective  mood, 
to-day,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
the  changes  time  had  brought  to  us ;  that 's 
all." 

"  Is  n't  that  enough?  "  he  asked.  "  The  con- 
trast is  sharp,  surely." 

Utterly  absorbed  in  her  own  idea,  she  went  on 
contentedly,  — 

"  Time  has  been  good  to  us  both,  in  some 
ways.  Seven  years  ago,  you  were  only  starting 
245 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

in  your  work ;  I  had  done  nothing  at  all.  We 
both  have  been  successful,  you  even  more  than 
I." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  glad.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  talking  half  to  him,  half  to  herself,  and 
girlishly  rejoicing  in  her  new-found  happiness. 
Suddenly  she  rose  and  stood  looking  down  at 
him. 

"  Life  is  good  to  us  both,  is  n't  it?  We  both 
of  us  have  been  through  our  dark  places,  now 
and  then ;  but  they  did  n't  last  long,  and  we 
have  come  through  them,  so  they  only  make 
to-day  seem  all  the  brighter  in  comparison.  I 
believe  I  am  glad,  though,  that  I  could  n't  look 
ahead.  Are  n't  you  ?  " 

He  felt  that  her  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he 
forced  himself  to  face  her  with  a  smile. 

"  It 's  never  well  to  see  the  future  too  plainly," 
he  answered.  "  It  is  likely  to  prove  either 
dazzling  or  depressing,  and  both  effects  are 
demoralizing  to  one's  work.  You  never  would 
have  gone  through  your  drudgery  half  so 
steadily,  if  you  could  have  seen  last  night's 
triumph." 

"  Nor  you  all  the  work  on  your  first  novel," 
she  retorted ;  "  if  you  had  known  just  how  it 
would  end.  You  'd  have  slurred  over  some  of 
the  most  telling  details.  After  all,  though,"  she 
added  more  gently ;  "  my  work  has  been  easy 
in  comparison  with  yours." 
246 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

Heaton's  face  had  turned  back  again  towards 
the  fire. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  and  your  success 
far  greater." 

The  silence  fell  again.  So  long  it  was  un- 
broken, so  motionless  was  the  man  before  her, 
that  Elinor  felt  a  nervous  tension  which  she  was 
at  a  loss  to  explain.  For  a  time,  she  stood 
there  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Then,  obeying 
some  sudden  impulse,  she  stole  away  out  of  the 
room.  A  moment  later,  Heaton  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  stood  straining  his  ears  to  listen. 

From  the  music-room,  far  at  the  other  end  of 
the  large  house,  there  came  a  strain,  distant,  yet 
distinct  and  vibrant  with  feeling.  Elinor  was 
singing  the  simple  little  "  Schlummerlied  "  she 
had  sung  so  long  ago.  Laden  with  memories,  it 
came  floating  to  him  through  the  silent  house, 
the  same  song,  word  for  word,  note  by  note,  that 
he  remembered  so  well ;  but  now  it  was  a  great 
artist  whose  voice  he  heard,  and  the  voice  was 
full  of  the  happiness  of  a  realized  golden  dream. 

Till  the  last  note  died  away,  he  stood  erect, 
with  his  head  raised  to  listen.  Then  his 
shoulders  shrank  together  and  he  turned  away. 

That  night,  the  Wyckoffs  dined  with  Mrs. 
Mackie.  It  was  the  first  time  for  a  year  that 
Elinor  had  been  alone  with  her  aunt ;  and  the 
two  women  had  much  to  talk  over,  before  their 
husbands  joined  them,  after  dinner.  For  a  time, 
247 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  conversation  turned  upon  the  events  of  the 
last  few  months.  Then  insensibly  it  drifted 
backwards,  until  they  fell  to  talking  of  the  old 
days  at  Idlewilde. 

"  Elinor,"  Mrs.  Mackie  said  thoughtfully,  as 
she  sat  watching  her  niece ;  "  did  you  ever 
know  how  sure  I  was  that  you  and  Mr.  Heaton 
would  fall  in  love  with  each  other  ?  " 

Half-hidden  in  the  depths  of  her  great  chair, 
Elinor  laughed  lightly  to  herself. 

"  Why,  Auntie,  what  an  absurd  idea  !  There 
was  always  Jack,  you  know." 

"  Yes ;  but  before  you  knew  Jack,  all  that  first 
winter  you  were  in  New  York.  You  were  such 
good  friends,  and  your  letters  were  so  full  of 
him  that  I  used  to  wonder  —  sometimes — " 
Her  sentence  ended  vaguely. 

Elinor  rose  and  stood  with  one  slender  foot 
resting  on  the  fender,  and  her  head  turned 
towards  her  aunt.  Her  face  was  very  grave ; 
but  there  was  no  self-consciousness  in  her  voice 
or  manner,  as  she  said  earnestly,  — 

"  No,  Auntie ;  it  was  never  like  that  at  all.  I 
liked  him  better  than  any  man  I  have  ever  seen, 
except  Jack ;  and  he  liked  me.  We  were  good 
friends ;  he  has  been  the  truest  friend  to  me  that 
a  woman  could  have  had;  but  that  was  all. 
Tom  Heaton  never  had  any  more  idea  of  loving 
me  than  I  did  of  loving  him.  There  was  never 
anybody  but  Jack." 

248 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

"  No ;  I  really  don't  dread  it  at  all.  Anybody 
can  sing  '  Elijah/  you  know." 

"  No ;  it  is  not  so  at  all,  signora.  Anybody 
can  vocalize  it;  to  sing  it,  that  is  quite  another 
matter.  I  have  heard  great  singers  fail  utterly 
with  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  heard  singers 
with  very  defectuous  voices,  sing  it  to  make  the 
tears  start." 

"  But  it  is  so  much  simpler  than  '  Arminius,' 
so  much  more  commonplace,"  she  urged. 

"I  know;  but  there  lies  the  danger.  Did  I 
not  tell  you  many  thousand  times  in  the  old 
days,  signora,  that  it  is  far  more  easy  to  sing  the 
great  things  than  the  small?  The  Priestess  is 
broad  and  free  and  dramatic.  It  thrills  one 
with  its  passion,  and  makes  one  feel  all  fire  and 
hot  blood.  But  to  sing  the  little  duetto  of  the 
Widow  and  Elijah,  that  is  far  different.  You 
must  feel  the  mother  love  stirring  in  your 
breast  as  you  sing.  There  should  be  no  thought 
of  the  intervals  nor  of  the  expression,  only  of 
the  mother  love  and  the  mother  sorrow." 

It  was  not  an  impressive  figure  who  stood 
before  her.  Scarcely  taller  than  herself,  with 
249 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

his  smooth  bald  head  shining  in  the  glare  of 
the  electric  lights  and  his  brows  drawn  together 
in  pain  at  the  thought  of  that  sorrowing  mother 
of  old,  Arturo  stood  facing  his  former  pupil 
in  the  dressing-room,  on  the  night  which  was 
to  mark  her  second  triumph. 

Regardless  of  the  awe  which  should  have  sur- 
rounded the  idol  of  the  hour,  he  had  come  to 
give  her  the  little  encouragement  and  admoni- 
tion which  he  felt  sure  ought  to  help  her  to  win 
another  ovation.  To  his  manifest  disapproval, 
he  had  found  her  quite  unafraid  at  the  thought 
of  the  evening's  ordeal. 

"  Can  you  not  see  the  difference?"  he  went 
on  a  little  impatiently.  "  You  say  the  other  is 
broader.  So  it  may  be.  A  priestess  is  greater 
than  a  homely  widow;  but  though  you  may 
rouse  the  whole  house  to  cheers  with  the  one, 
with  the  other  you  can  touch  the  heart  of  every 
single  person  who  hears  you.  We  may  marvel 
at  the  Priestess;  but  we  all  have  suffered  pain 
as  the  Widow  has  suffered  it,  and  as  you  must 
have  suffered  it,  too,  to  sing  it  from  the  heart." 

Flushed  with  excitement  and  anticipation, 
radiant  in  her  happiness,  Elinor  took  the  hand 
of  her  old  teacher. 

"  Signor  Arturo,"  she  said  earnestly ;  "  I  be- 
lieve you,  and  it  is  my  one  wish  to  sing  so  that 
you  may  be  satisfied." 

His  face  fell,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
250 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"It  is  not  that,  my  dear  signora.  Oh,  why 
can  you  not  see  it  so  ?  You  should  not  stop  to 
think  whether  you  are  pleasing  me,  or  the 
critics,  or  the  man  who  plays  the  trombone,  any 
more  than  you  should  stop  to  think  whether  it 
is  an  F  or  an  A  flat  that  you  are  taking.  To 
sing  well,  you  must  live.  You  must  pour  into 
your  singing  all  the  thoughts  and  deeds  and 
hopes  of  your  lifetime,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow 
or  of  pain.  In  that  way,  if  your  life  grows 
richer,  so  will  your  singing  grow  richer,  too, 
and  no  matter  how  thin  and  worn  your  voice 
may  become,  there  will  always  follow  you  a 
great,  vast  audience  of  people  who  are  strug- 
gling and  hoping,  just  as  you  yourself  have 
struggled  and  hoped.  It  is  with  singing  as 
with  all  art.  Only  by  living  outside  your  own 
life  can  you  make  your  voice  ring  true." 

He  paused,  and  stood  rubbing  his  head  with 
his  handkerchief.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"  They  are  waiting  for  you,  signora,"  he  said. 
"Go  on  now,  and  sing  with  all  the  depths  of 
your  being.  I  shall  hear  you;  but  you  must 
not  think  of  me,  nor  of  yourself,  nor  of  your 
husband,  only  of  the  music  and  what  it  speaks 
to  your  heart.  Your  success  will  be  great  to 
me,  for  have  I  not  helped  to  make  it,  my 
child?" 

Swayed  by  the  fire  of  his  words,  she  followed 

251 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

him  to  the  wings,  walking  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Wyckoff  was  in  the  box  with  his  cousins,  that 
night,  and  it  was  Arturo  who  led  her  to  the  stage 
door.  As  soon  as  she  had  crossed  the  thres- 
hold and  come  into  the  glare  of  the  footlights, 
she  was  greeted  with  deafening  applause  which 
sent  the  blood  leaping  through  her  veins.  Her 
husband's  face  was  glowing  with  pride,  as  he 
watched  her  move  slowly  forward,  bowing  this 
way  and  that  in  answer  to  the  welcoming 
plaudits. 

There  was  little  nervousness  in  her  manner  as 
she  took  her  seat,  while  the  conductor  raised 
his  baton  and  the  solemn  chords  gave  prelude 
to  Elijah's  prophecy.  She  heard  the  overture 
ringing  out  with  more  fire  and  intensity  as  it 
went  on,  until  the  coldest  one  in  the  audience 
caught  his  breath  while  he  listened.  She  heard 
the  chorus,  full  and  glorious,  rising  even  above 
the  orchestra,  then  dying  away  again  into  broken 
plaint.  With  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  score,  she 
sat  listening,  enjoying  it  all  with  a  curious  feel- 
ing of  aloofness,  of  irresponsibility.  The  audi- 
ence was  sympathetic  from  the  start,  she  felt, 
yet  it  was  as  if  they  were  holding  themselves  in 
check,  waiting  to  reserve  their  fullest  enthusiasm 
for  something  that  was  to  come  later. 

Then  the  key  changed,  and  she  knew  that  the 
moment  of  her  solo  was  near.  As  she  rose,  she 
gave  one  swift  glance  towards  her  husband ;  but 
252 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

her  eyes  drooped  again  while  she  waited  for  the 
few  notes  of  the  introduction.  Then,  in  the  midst 
of  a  deep,  expectant  hush,  she  began  to  sing  the 
Widow's  wonderful  prayer  for  help. 

"  Help  me,  man  of  God  !  My  son  is  sick. 
I  go  mourning  all  the  day  long, 
I  lie  down  and  weep  at  night." 

Clear  and  sweet  and  true,  her  voice  filled  the 
house,  rising  fuller  and  stronger  as  it  reached 
the  last  glad  note  of  exultation,  — 

"  The  soul  of  my  son  reviveth  !  " 

The  solo  was  ended,  and  the  short  duet  which 
followed.  There  came  a  silence  so  short  as  to 
be  scarcely  perceptible ;  then  a  quick  burst  of 
applause,  punctiliously  cordial,  but  so  cold  that 
it  cut  to  her  heart  like  a  steel  knife.  Up  in 
the  middle  box,  Jack's  cheeks  had  turned  gray- 
ish white ;  but,  out  in  the  wings,  Arturo  had 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  round  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  Ah,  not  yet,  not  yet !  "  he  groaned.  "  She 
has  not  yet  lived  to  learn  what  it  is  to  suffer." 

They  none  of  them  knew  how  the  evening 
ended ;  but  at  last  it  was  over,  and  Jack  put  his 
wife  into  the  carriage  with  a  gentleness  which 
brought  the  quick  tears  to  her  eyes,  though  he 
spoke  no  word  of  what  had  passed  until  they 
were  alone  in  their  room  together.  Then  he 
only  said,  — 

253 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"Never  mind,  little  woman.  It  will  come, 
some  day." 

"No,  Jack,"  she  said  sadly;  "I  am  afraid  it 
never  will." 

All  the  next  morning,  she  shut  herself  into 
her  room.  Her  husband  had  reluctantly  gone 
away  to  keep  an  engagement,  and  she  denied 
herself  to  every  caller.  Late  in  the  morning, 
however,  Heaton's  card  was  brought  to  her 
door. 

"  Who  is  with  him  ?  "  she  asked  the  boy. 
"  Nobody,  ma'am." 
She  hesitated.     Then  she  said,  — 
"Very  well.      Tell   him   I   will   come,   in   a 
minute." 

As  she  entered  the  great,  barren  parlor  of 
the  hotel,  she  rejoiced  that  he  could  not  see 
the  marks  of  the  tears  on  her  face;  but  her 
voice  betrayed  her,  even  in  her  few  words  of 
welcome. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  swiftly,  as  if 
she  dared  not  trust  her  voice  too  far.  "  I  have 
refused  to  see  any  one  else;  but  I  knew  you 
would  understand.  Do  you  mind  coming  into 
our  own  sitting-room  ?  We  shall  be  more  free 
from  interruption  there." 

Arm   in   arm,  they  passed   through  the  hall 
in  silence.     Once    in  her   private  sitting-room, 
Elinor  led  Heaton  to  a  chair,  then  stood  before 
him,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 
254 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

"  Did  I  do  wrong  to  come  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  oh,  no ;  I  hoped  you  would.  I  knew 
you  understood  it  all,  last  night,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  you  then.  If  you  had  n't  come,  to-day,  I 
should  have  sent  Jack  for  you.  It  was  so  much 
for  you  to  come  here  alone.  I  do  appreciate 
it" 

"  If  I  could  be  of  any  use  —  "  he  began 
slowly. 

She  interrupted  him  wildly. 

"  Was  n't  it  all  cruel  ?  I  don't  know  why  I 
failed.  I  felt  it  was  such  an  utter  failure ;  they 
all  did,  even  if  they  are  polite  enough  to  pretend 
that  I  sang  well.  It  is  no  use  for  me  to  say  that 
I  don't  care,  for  I  do.  What  was  it?  It  must 
have  been  something  that  I  could  n't  do,  for  I 
did  all  I  could." 

Until  now,  she  had  not  given  voice  to  her 
emotion.  Not  even  to  her  husband  had  she 
been  able  to  speak  out ;  but  with  Heaton  she  let 
her  sorrow  have  its  way.  His  friendship  had 
never  failed  her  before ;  in  all  her  girlish  doubts 
and  triumphs  it  had  strengthened  and  helped 
her.  Now  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she 
had  lost  confidence  in  her  final  success;  and 
now  instinctively,  in  her  deep  trouble,  she 
turned  to  Heaton  for  sympathy.  She  checked 
herself  abruptly. 

"  I  must  seem  weak  and  childish  to  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  pitiful  effort  at  composure.  "  It  is 
255 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

the  first  I  have  spoken  to  any  one  about  it ;  but 
it  is  so  hard  to  get  used  to  my  limitations,  just 
when  I  thought  I  had  the  world  at  my  feet.  You 
went  through  it,  years  ago,  that  summer  at  Idle- 
wilde,  and  you  have  lived  to  go  on  with  your 
work,  in  spite  of  everything,  and  to  win  all  you 
ever  hoped  for  and  dreamed  of.  You  can  help 
me,  for  you  have  been  through  it  all,  yourself, 
and  come  out  of  it,  a  contented,  happy  man." 

He  winced  at  her  words.  Then  he  rose  and 
stood  facing  her. 

"  Elinor,"  he  said  slowly,  as  he  drew  himself 
to  his  full  height ;  "  we  all  of  us  must  learn  the 
same  lesson.  It  is  n't  a  question  of  success  or 
failure  for  any  of  us.  All  we  can  do  is  to  make 
the  very  most  of  what  fate  sends  us,  and  never 
whine  or  draw  back  under  the  sharpest  blows. 
It 's  a  hard  lesson,  and  we  never  really  get  to  the 
end  of  it;  but  we  have  to  keep  on  trying  to 
work  over  our  failures  into  successes,  not  for  our 
own  sakes,  but  on  account  of  the  people  around 
us." 

"  Show  me  how,  then,"  she  said  impetuously. 
"  You  have  helped  me  before,  again  and  again. 
Help  me  once  more.  I  can't  have  Jack  dis- 
appointed in  me.  I  must  succeed,  after  all  I 
have  worked  and  longed  for  it.  Tell  me  how  to 
conquer,  as  you  did,  and  make  something  of 
myself,  after  all  —  for  Jack's  sake." 

For  a  moment,  he  stood  silent,  his  shoulders 
256 


EACH    LIFE    UNFULFILLED 

thrown  back,  his  head  raised  and  his  face  lighted 
with  an  expression  which  she  had  never  seen 
there  before,  which  she  was  at  a  loss  to  inter- 
pret. Then  he  said  simply,  — 

"  I  will  try  —  for  Jack's  sake." 

It  was  Elinor  herself  who  led  him  to  his  car- 
riage and  stood  looking  after  it,  as  it  drove 
away.  Already  her  thoughts  were  busy  with 
new  purposes,  with  the  new  courage  and  hope 
which  Heaton  had  aroused  within  her. 

But  Heaton,  driving  away  through  the  lonely 
darkness,  had  bowed  his  head  on  his  clasped 
hands. 

"  Her  dream  has  been  fulfilled,  and  her  suc- 
cess has  proved  to  be  no  more  perfect  than  my 
own,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  And  I  thought 
I  had  forgotten;  but —  My  God,  how  I  love 
that  woman !  " 


THE  END 


17  257 


fiction 


ing's  fieticbman.  A  Chronicle  of  the  Sixteenth 
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is  Weyman  in  vigorous  activity,  it  is  Dumas  in  its  brilliant  touches  of  romanti- 
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Mr.  Johnson  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  period,  and  has  painted  in  Henry 
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"Che  Duenna  of  a  Genius.    By  M.  E.  FRANCIS  (Mrs. 

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An  admirable  novel ;  a  pure,  bright,  pleasant,  sparkling,  wholesome,  inter- 
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"Che  Count's  Snuff-Box.  A  Romance  of  Washington 
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Will  rank  as  one  of  the  successes  of  the  year  if  there  is  any  faith  to  be  put 
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I 


fiassan.     H  Romance  of  Palestine*    By  HENRY 

GILLMAN.     Crown  8vo.    600  pages.     Cloth,  gilt  top. 

$2.00. 

The  author  of  this  powerful  romance  lived  in  Palestine  for  over  five 
years,  and  during  his  residence  there  had  unusual  and  peculiar  advantages 
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Bielanha:  a  forest  picture,  and  Other  Stories. 

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It  comprises  six  hundred  pages,  and  contains  the  following  stories,  dramas, 
etc. :  Sielanka,  a  Forest  Picture ;  For  Bread  ;  Orso  ;  Whose  Fault,  a  Dra- 
matic Picture  in  One  Act ;  On  a  Single  Card,  a  Play  in  Five  Acts ;  The 
Decision  of  Zeus;  Yanko  the  Musician;  Bartek  the  Victor;  Across  the 
Plains ;  The  Diary  of  a  Tutor  in  Poznan ;  The  Lighthouse  Keeper  of 
Aspinwall;  Yamyol  (Angel);  The  Bull  Fight;  A  Comedy  of  Errors;  A 
Journey  to  Athens ;  Zola. 

Under  the  seventeen  titles  one  finds  almost  as  many  aspects  of  the  genius  of 
Sienkiewicz.  Detached  from  the  intricacies  of  an  elaborate  composition,  figures, 
scenes,  and  episodes  become  far  more  effective.  —  Neva  York  Times. 

In  Tain.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from 
the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  i6mo.  Cloth,  extra. 
$1.25. 

A  love  story  of  modern  Poland,  by  the  author  of  "Quo  Vadis,"  not 
before  translated.  The  scene  is  laid  at  Kieff,  and  university  life  there  is 
described.  - 

a 


"Che  Story  Of  Gosta  Bcrltng.  Translated  from  the 
Swedish  of  SELMA  LAGERLOF,  by  PAULINE  BANCROFT 
FLACH.  I2mo.  Cloth,  gilt.  $1.75. 

When  "Gosta  Berling"  was  first  published  in  Sweden  a  few  years 
ago,  Miss  Lagerlof  immediately  rose  into  prominence,  and,  as  Mr.  E. 
Xesbit  Bain  writes  in  the  October  « Cosmopolis,"  "  took  the  Swedish 
public  by  storm." 

The  sagalike  treatment  and  almost  lyric  mood  of  "  The  Story  of  Gosta 
Berling  "  render  its  form  in  keeping  with  the  unusual  character  of  the  book 
itself.  The  harshness  of  Northern  manners  enables  Miss  Lagerlof  to 
probe  human  life  to  its  depths  ;  and  with  the  effect  of  increasing  the  weird 
power  of  the  whole,  a  convincing  truth  to  nature  is  intermingled  with  the 
wild  legends  and  folk-lore  of  Varmland. 

There  is  hardly  a  page  that  does  not  glow  with  strantre  beauty,  so  that  the 
book  exerts  an  unbroken  charm  from  beginning  to  end. —  The  Bookman. 

Something  Homeric  in  its  epic  simplicity  runs  through  the  history  of  the 
deposed  priest.  The  opening  chapters  engage  the  attention  at  once  by  their 
mystic  realism.  —  Time  and  the  Hour. 

X  am  the  Kttlg.  Being  the  Account  of  some  Happenings 
in  the  Life  of  Godfrey  de  Bersac,  Crusader  Knight.  By 
SHEPPARD  STEVENS.  i6mo.  Cloth,  extra.  $1.25. 

A  fresh  and  invigorating  piece  of  reading.  — Nashville  American. 

Characterized  by  those  graceful  touches  which  belong  to  true  and  pure 
romanticism.  —  Boston  Herald. 

It  has  the  straightforwardness  of  the  old-time  story-teller.  —St.  Louis 
Globe-Democrat. 

Che  Duke's  Servants.  H  Romance.  By  SIDNEY 
HERBERT  BURCHELL,  author  of  "In  the  Days  of  King 
James."  I2mo.  Cloth,  extra.  $1.50. 

A  highly  successful  romance,  of  general  interest  and  of  creditable  workman- 
ship. —  London  A  then&unt, 

pastor  Naudte's  touncf  3dife*   By  EDOUARD  ROD. 

Translated  from   the   French  by  BRADLEY    OILMAN. 
I2mo.     Cloth.     $1.25. 

M.  Rod's  new  novel  is  a  study  of  French  Protestantism,  and  its  scene 
is  laid  in  La  Rochelle  and  Montauban,  the  two  Huguenot  strongholds.  It 
was  first  published  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  and  at  once  achieved 
success.  "  M.  Rod's  work,"  says  Edmund  Gosse  in  the  "  Contemporary 
Review,"  "whether  in  criticism  or  fiction,  always  demands  attention." 
"  The  Catholics,"  says  a  writer  in  "  Literature,"  "  praise  the  book  because 
they  find  in  it  arguments  against  their  adversaries ;  the  Protestants,  while 
protesting  that  the  author,  because  he  writes  in  the  clerical  Gaulois.  is  none 
of  theirs,  read  it  to  discover  personal  allusions  to  their  spiritual  guides." 
3 


Cbe  Kinship  of  Souls.  H  Narrative.  By  REUEN 
THOMAS.  i2mo.  Cloth,  extra.  $1.50. 

The  author  of  this  work  is  well  known  through  his  connection  with 
the  ministry.  The  volume  gives  an  account  of  a  trip  made  by  a  philo- 
sophical professor,  his  intellectual  daughter,  and  a  young  theological  stu- 
dent, including  descriptions  of  various  portions  of  England  and  Germany 
visited  by  the  persons  of  the  narrative.  The  undogmatic  way  in  which  the 
author  discusses  theology  and  philosophy  will  interest  the  serious-minded. 

King  or  Kna\*,  dhich  dins  ?  An  old  Tale  of  Hugue- 
not Days.  Edited  by  WILLIAM  HENRY  JOHNSON. 
izmo.  Cloth,  extra.  $1.50. 

This  is  a  sequel  to  the  author's  successful  romance  of  the  time  of 
Henry  of  Navarre,  entitled  "The  King's  Henchman."  Much  of  its  in- 
terest centres  in  the  personality  of  the  famous  Gabrielle  d'Estre'es  and  the 
efforts  of  Henry  of  Navarre  to  obtain  possession  of  the  throne  of  France. 

"Che  Miracles  of  Hnticbrfet.    By  SELMA  LAGERLOF. 

Author  of  "  The  Story  of  Gosta  Berling."     Translated 

from  the  Swedish    by  PAULINE   BANCROFT   FLACH. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  extra.     $1.50. 

This  second  important  work  from  the  pen  of  the  successful  author  of 
"Gosta  Berling,"  which  has  created  such  a  strong  impression,  will  be 
widely  read.  "The  author,"  says  a  reviewer  in  " Cosmopolis,"  "has 
chosen  the  Etna  region  of  Sicily  as  the  theatre  of  her  story,  and  the  result  is 
a  masterpiece  of  the  highest  order, — a  chef-d'oeuvre  which  places  the 
young  author  in  the  front  rank  of  the  literary  artists  of  her  day.  The 
merits  of  '  Antekrists  Mirakler '  are  so  superlative  that  a  lesser  eulogy 
would  be  inadequate.  ...  It  is  worth  while  to  learn  Swedish  to  read  this 
astonishing  book.  All  who  hunger  after  true  poetry  may  here  eat,  drink, 
and  be  satisfied." 

H  Boy  in  the  peninsular  dar.  The  Services,  Adven- 
tures, and  Experiences  of  Robert  Blakeney,  a  Subaltern 
in  the  28th  Regiment.  An  Autobiography.  Edited  by 
JULIAN  STURGIS.  With  a  map.  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt  top. 
$4.00. 
In  the  pages  of  this  book  will  be  found  a  spirited  picture  of  an 

English  soldier's  life  during  the  Peninsular  War,  with  the  allied  armies 

against  Napoleon's  generals. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


A     000  032  774     2 


